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Merry  Christmas  in  the  Tenements. 


v/^. 


CxeU' 


n 


Out  of 
Mulberry  Street 

Stories  of  tenement 
life  in  New  York  City 

By 
Jacob   A.  Riis 

Author  of  "  How  the  Other  Half  Lives," 
"The  Children  of  the  Poor,"  etc. 


'I  ^^^ 

0^ 


New  Y 
The  Centa 

1898 


'"-t<^«Arsu>'\^ 


Copyright,  1 8 97>  1898, 
By  The  Century  Co. 


The  DeVinne  Press. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Merry  Christmas  in  the  Tenements     ...      1 

'T  WAS  Liza's  Doings 47 

The  Dubourques,  Father  and  Son    ....    60 

Abe's  Game  of  Jacks 67 

A  Little  Picture 71 

A  Dream  of  the  Woods 73 

A  Heathen  Baby .80 

He  Kept  his  Tryst 86 

John  Gavin,  Misfit 91 

In  the  Children's  Hospital 96 

Nigger  Martha's  Wake 106 

A  Chip  from  the  Maelstrom 114 

Sarah  Joyce's  Husbands 118 

The  Cat  Took  the  Kosher  Meat      ....  122 

Fire  in  the  Barracks 126 

A  War  on  the  Goats 129 

Rover's  Last  Fight 135 

When  the  Letter  Came 142 

vii 


I 


viii  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Kid 147 

Lost  Children 151        \ 

The  Slipper-maker's  Fast 162        J 

Paolo's  Awakening 166 

The  Little  Dollar's  Christmas  Journey      .  182 

A  Proposal  on  the  Elevated 199 

Death  Comes  to  Cat  Alley 205 

Why  it  Happened 210 

The  Christening  in  Bottle  Alley   .    .    .    .213 

In  the  Mulberry  Street  Court  .     .     .     .     .  219 

Spooning  in  Dynamite  Alley 223 

Heroes  who  Fight  Fire 229 


PREFACE 

Since  I  wrote  ^^  H^w  the  Other  Half  Lives  " 
I  have  been  asked  many  times  upon  what 
basis  of  experience,  of  fact,  I  built  that  ac- 
count of  life  in  New  York  tenements.  These 
stories  contain  the  answer.  They  are  from 
the  daily  grist  of  the  police  hopper  in  Mul- 
berry street,  at  which  I  have  been  grinding 
for  twenty  years.  They  are  reprinted  from 
the  columns  of  my  newspaper,  and  from  the 
magazines  as  a  contribution  to  the  discussion 
of  the  lives  and  homes  of  the  poor,  which  in 
recent  years  has  done  much  to  better  their 
lot,  and  is  yet  to  do  much  more  when  we 
have  all  come  to  understand  each  other.  In 
this  discussion  only  facts  are  of  value,  and 
these  stories  are  true.  In  the  few  instances 
in  which  I  have  taken  the  ordering  of  events 
into  my  own  hands,  it  is  chiefly  their  se- 
quence with  which  I  have  interfered.  The 
facts  themselves  remain  as  I  found  them. 

J.  A.  R. 

301  Mulberry  Street. 


^  680204 


OUT  OF 
MULBERRY  STREET 


MERRY  CHRISTMAS  IN  THE 
TENEMENTS 

IT  was  just  a  sprig  of  holly,  with  scarlet 
berries  showing  against  the  green,  stuck 
in,  by  one  of  the  office  boys  probably,  behind 
the  sign  that  pointed  the  way  up  to  the  edi- 
torial rooms.  There  was  no  reason  why  it 
should  have  made  me  start  when  I  came  sud- 
denly upon  it  at  the  turn  of  the  stairs ;  but 
it  did.  Perhaps  it  was  because  that  dingy 
hall,  given  over  to  dust  and  drafts  all  the  days 
of  the  year,  was  the  last  place  in  which  I  ex- 
pected to  meet  with  any  sign  of  Christmas ; 
perhaps  it  was  because  I  myself  had  nearly 
forgotten  the  holiday.  Whatever  the  cause, 
it  gave  me  quite  a  turn. 

I  stood,  and  stared  at  it.     It  looked  dr}^, 
almost  withered.     Probably  it  had  come  a 
long  way.     Not   much   holly  grows   about 
1  1 


6  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

Prin ting-House  Square,  except  in  the  col- 
ored supplements,  and  that  is  scai-cely  of  a 
kind  to  stir  tender  memories.  Withered  and 
dry,  this  did.  I  thought,  with  a  twinge  of 
conscience,  of  secret  little  conclaves  of  my 
children,  of  private  views  of  things  hidden 
from  mama  at  the  bottom  of  drawers,  of 
wild  flights  when  papa  appeared  unbidden  in 
the  door,  which  I  had  allowed  for  once  to 
pass  unheeded.  Absorbed  in  the  business  of 
the  office,  I  had  hardly  thought  of  Christmas 
coming  on,  until  now  it  was  here.  And  this 
sprig  of  holly  on  the  wall  that  had  come  to 
remind  me,— come  nobody  knew  how  far,— 
did  it  grow  yet  in  the  beech- wood  clearings, 
as  it  did  when  I  gathered  it  as  a  boy,  track- 
ing through  the  snow?  '^  Christ- thorn"  we 
called  it  in  our  Danish  tongue.  The  red  ber- 
ries, to  our  simple  faith,  were  the  drops  of 
blood  that  fell  from  the  Saviour's  brow  as  it 
drooped  under  its  cruel  crown  upon  the  cross. 
Back  to  the  long  ago  wandered  my 
thoughts :  to  the  moss-grown  beech  in  which 
I  cut  my  name  and  that  of  a  little  girl  with 
yellow  curls,  of  blessed  memory,  with  the  first 
jack-knife  I  ever  owned;  to  the  story-book 
with  the  little  fir-tree  that  pined  because  it 
was  small,  and  because  the  hare  jumped  over 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  3 

it,  and  would  not  be  content  though  the  wind 
and  the  sun  kissed  it,  and  the  dews  wept  over 
it  and  told  it  to  rejoice  in  its  young  life ;  and 
that  was  so  proud  when,  in  the  second  year, 
the  hare  had  to  go  round  it,  because  then  it 
knew  it  was  getting  big,— Hans  Christian 
Andersen's  story  that  we  loved  above  aU  the 
rest ;  for  we  knew  the  tree  right  well,  and  the 
hare ;  even  the  tracks  it  left  in  the  snow  we 
had  seen.  Ah,  those  were  the  Yule-tide  sea- 
sons, when  the  old  Domkirke  shone  with  a 
thousand  wax  candles  on  Christmas  eve ;  when 
all  business  was  laid  aside  to  let  the  world 
make  merry  one  whole  week ;  when  big  red 
apples  were  roasted  on  the  stove,  and  bigger 
doughnuts  were  baked  within  it  for  the  long 
feast!  Never  such  had  been  known  since. 
Christmas  to-day  is  but  a  name,  a  memory. 

A  door  slammed  below,  and  let  in  the  noises 
of  the  street.  The  holly  rustled  in  the  draft. 
Some  one  going  out  said,  "  A  Merry  Christ- 
mas to  you  all !  "  in  a  big,  hearty  voice.  I 
awoke  from  my  reverie  to  find  myself  back  in 
New  York  with  a  glad  glow  at  the  heart.  It 
was  not  true.  I  had  only  forgotten.  It  was 
myseK  that  had  changed,  not  Christmas. 
That  was  here,  with  the  old  cheer,  the  old 
message  of  good-will,  the  old  royal  road  to 


4  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

the  heart  of  mankind.  How  often  had  I  seen 
its  blessed  charity,  that  never  corrupts,  make 
light  in  the  hovels  of  darkness  and  despair ! 
how  often  watched  its  spirit  of  self  sacrifice 
and  devotion  in  those  who  had,  besides  them- 
selves, nothing  to  give!  and  as  often  the 
sight  had  made  whole  my  faith  in  human 
nature.  No !  Christmas  was  not  of  the  past, 
its  spirit  not  dead.  The  lad  who  fixed  the 
sprig  of  holly  on  the  stairs  knew  it ;  my  re- 
porter's note-book  bore  witness  to  it.  Wit- 
ness of  my  contrition  for  the  wrong  I  did  the 
gentle  spirit  of  the  holiday,  here  let  the  book 
tell  the  story  of  one  Christmas  in  the  tene- 
ments of  the  poor : 

It  is  evening  in  Grand  street.  The  shops 
east  and  west  are  pouring  forth  their  swarms 
of  workers.  Street  and  sidewalk  are  filled 
with  an  eager  throng  of  young  men  and 
women,  chatting  gaily,  and  elbowing  the  jam 
of  holiday  shoppers  that  linger  about  the  big 
stores.  The  street-cars  labor  along,  loaded 
down  to  the  steps  with  passengers  carrying 
bundles  of  every  size  and  odd  shape.  Along 
the  curb  a  string  of  peddlers  hawk  penny 
toys  in  push-carts  with  noisy  clamor,  fearless 
for  once  of  being  moved  on  by  the  police. 


IN  THE   TENEMENTS  5 

Christmas  brings  a  two  weeks'  respite  from 
persecution  even  to  the  friendless  street-fakir. 
From  the  window  of  one  brilliantly  lighted 
store  a  bevy  of  mature  dolls  in  dishabille 
stretch  forth  their  arms  appealingly  to  a 
troop  of  factory-hands  passing  by.  The 
young  men  chaff  the  girls,  who  shriek  with 
laughter  and  run.  The  policeman  on  the  cor- 
ner stops  beating  his  hands  together  to  keep 
warm,  and  makes  a  mock  attempt  to  catch 
them,  whereat  their  shrieks  rise  shriller  than 
ever.  '^Them  stockin's  o'  yourn  '11  be  the 
death  o'  Santa  Claus  !  "  he  shouts  after  them, 
as  they  dodge.  And  they,  looking  back,  snap 
saucily,  '^  Mind  yer  business,  freshy  ! ''  But 
their  laughter  belies  their  words,  '^They 
gin  it  to  ye  straight  that  time,"  grins  the 
grocer's  clerk,  come  out  to  snatch  a  look  at 
the  crowds  5  and  the  two  swap  holiday  greet- 
ings. 

At  the  corner,  where  two  opposing  tides  of 
travel  form  an  eddy,  the  line  of  push-carts  de- 
bouches down  the  darker  side-street.  In  its 
gloom  their  torches  burn  with  a  fitful  glare 
that  wakes  black  shadows  among  the  trusses 
of  the  railroad  structure  overhead.  A  woman, 
with  worn  shawl  drawn  tightly  about  head 
and  shoulders,  bargains  with  a  peddler  for  a 


6  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

monkey  on  a  stick  and  two  cents'  worth  of 
flitter-gold.  Five  ill-clad  youngsters  flatten 
their  noses  against  the  frozen  pane  of  the 
toy-shop,  in  ecstasy  at  something  there,  which 
proves  to  be  a  milk-wagon,  with  driver, 
horses,  and  cans  that  can  be  unloaded.  It 
is  something  their  minds  can  grasp.  One 
comes  forth  with  a  penny  goldfish  of  paste- 
board clutched  tightly  in  his  hand,  and,  cast- 
ing cautious  glances  right  and  left,  speeds 
across  the  way  to  the  door  of  a  tenement, 
where  a  little  girl  stands  waiting.  "  It 's  yer 
Chris'mas,  Kate,"  he  says,  and  thrusts  it  into 
her  eager  fist.  The  black  doorway  swallows 
them  up. 

Across  the  nan*ow  yard,  in  the  basement  of 
the  rear  house,  the  lights  of  a  Christmas  tree 
show  against  the  grimy  window-pane.  The 
hare  would  never  have  gone  around  it,  it  is 
so  very  small.  The  two  children  are  busily 
engaged  fixing  the  goldfish  upon  one  of  its 
branches.  Three  little  candles  that  burn  there 
shed  light  upon  a  scene  of  utmost  desolation. 
The  room  is  black  with  smoke  and  dirt.  In 
the  middle  of  the  floor  oozes  an  oil-stove  that 
serves  at  once  to  take  the  raw  edge  off  the 
cold  and  to  cook  the  meals  by.  Half  the  win- 
dow-panes are  broken,  and  the  holes  stuffed 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  7 

with  rags.  The  sleeve  of  an  old  coat  hangs 
out  of  one,  and  beats  drearily  upon  the  sash 
when  the  wind  sweeps  over  the  fence  and 
rattles  the  rotten  shutters.  The  family  wash, 
clammy  and  gray,  hangs  on  a  clothes-line 
stretched  across  the  room.  Under  it,  at  a 
table  set  with  cracked  and  empty  plates,  a 
discouraged  woman  sits  eying  the  children's 
show  gloomily.  It  is  evident  that  she  has 
been  drinking.  The  peaked  faces  of  the  little 
ones  wear  a  famished  look.  There  are  three 
—the  third  an  infant,  put  to  bed  in  what  was 
once  a  baby-carriage.  The  two  from  the  street 
are  pulling  it  around  to  get  the  tree  in  range. 
The  baby  sees  it,  and  crows  with  delight.  The 
boy  shakes  a  branch,  and  the  goldfish  leaps 
and  sparkles  in  the  candle-light. 

''  See,  sister !  "  he  pipes ;  '•  see  Santa  Claus !  " 
And  they  clap  their  hands  in  glee.  The  woman 
at  the  table  wakes  out  of  her  stupor,  gazes 
around  her,  and  bursts  into  a  fit  of  maudlin 
weeping. 

The  door  falls  to.  Five  flights  up,  another 
opens  upon  a  bare  attic  room  which  a  patient 
little  woman  is  setting  to  rights.  There  are 
only  three  chairs,  a  box,  and  a  bedstead  in  the 
room,  but  they  take  a  deal  of  careful  arrang- 
ing.   The  bed  hides  the  broken  plaster  in  the 


8  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

wall  througli  which  the  wind  came  in ;  each 
chair-leg  stands  over  a  rat-hole,  at  once  to 
hide  it  and  to  keep  the  rats  out.  One  is  left ; 
the  box  is  for  that.  The  plaster  of  the  ceiling 
is  held  up  with  pasteboard  patches.  I  know 
the  story  of  that  attic.  It  is  one  of  cruel  de- 
sertion. The  woman's  husband  is  even  now 
living  in  plenty  with  the  creature  for  whom 
he  forsook  her,  not  a  dozen  blocks  away,  while 
she  ^^  keeps  the  home  together  for  the  childer." 
She  sought  justice,  but  the  lawyer  demanded 
a  retainer  5  so  she  gave  it  up,  and  went  back 
to  her  little  ones.  For  this  room  that  barely 
keeps  the  winter  wind  out  she  pays  four  dol- 
lars a  month,  and  is  behind  with  the  rent. 
There  is  scarce  bread  in  the  house ;  but  the 
spirit  of  Christmas  has  found  her  attic. 
Against  a  broken  wall  is  tacked  a  hemlock 
branch,  the  leavings  of  the  corner  grocer's 
fitting-block;  pink  string  from  the  packing- 
counter  hangs  on  it  in  festoons.  A  tallow  dip 
on  the  box  furnishes  the  illumination.  The 
children  sit  up  in  bed,  and  watch  it  with  shin- 
ing eyes. 

u  ^g  jj.Q  ]iaving  Christmas !  "  they  say. 

The  lights  of  the  Bowery  glow  like  a  myriad 
twinkling  stars  upon  the  ceaseless  flood  of 
humanity  that  surges  ever  through  the  great 


IN  THE  TENEMENTS  9 

highway  of  the  homeless.  They  shine  upon 
long  rows  of  lodging-houses,  in  which  hun- 
dreds of  young  men,  cast  helpless  upon  the 
reef  of  the  strange  city,  are  learning  their  first 
lessons  of  utter  loneliness ;  for  what  desola- 
tion is  there  like  that  of  the  careless  crowd 
when  all  the  world  rejoices  1  They  shine  upon 
the  tempter,  setting  his  snares  there,  and  upon 
the  missionary  and  the  Salvation  Army  lass, 
disputing  his  catch  with  him ;  upon  the  police 
detective  going  his  rounds  with  coldly  obser- 
vant eye  intent  upon  the  outcome  of  the  con- 
test; upon  the  wreck  that  is  past  hope,  and 
upon  the  youth  pausing  on  the  verge  of  the 
pit  in  which  the  other  has  long  ceased  to 
struggle.  Sights  and  sounds  of  Christmas 
there  are  in  plenty  in  the  Bowery.  Juniper 
and  tamarack  and  fir  stand  in  groves  along 
the  busy  thoroughfare,  and  garlands  of  green 
embower  mission  and  dive  impartially.  Once 
a  year  the  old  street  recalls  its  youth  with  an 
effort.  It  is  true  that  it  is  largely  a  commer- 
cial effort— that  the  evergreen,  with  an  in- 
stinct that  is  not  of  its  native  hills,  haunts 
saloon-corners  by  preference;  but  the  smell 
of  the  pine-woods  is  in  the  air,  and— Christ- 
mas is  not  too  critical— one  is  grateful  for 
the  effort.     It  varies  with  the  opportunity. 


10  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

At  '' Beefsteak  John's"  it  is  content  with 
artistically  embalming  crullers  and  mince-pies 
in  green  cabbage  under  the  window  lamp. 
Over  yonder,  where  the  mile-post  of  the  old 
lane  still  stands,— in  its  unhonored  old  age 
become  the  vehicle  of  publishing  the  latest 
"sure  cure"  to  the  world,— a  florist,  whose 
undenominational  zeal  for  the  holiday  and 
trade  outstrips  alike  distinction  of  creed  and 
property,  has  transformed  the  sidewalk  and 
the  ugly  railroad  structure  into  a  veritable 
bower,  spanning  it  with  a  canopy  of  green, 
under  which  dwell  with  him,  in  neighborlj^ 
good-will,  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Associ- 
ation and  the  Gentile  tailor  next  door. 

In  the  next  block  a  "  tui*key-shoot "  is  in 
progress.  Crowds  are  trying  their  luck  at 
breaking  the  glass  balls  that  dance  upon  tiny 
jets  of  water  in  front  of  a  marine  view  with 
the  moon  rising,  yellow  and  big,  out  of  a  silver 
sea.  A  man-of-war,  with  lights  burning  aloft, 
labors  under  a  rocky  coast.  Groggy  sailor- 
men,  on  shore  leave,  make  unsteady  attempts 
upon  the  dancing  balls.  One  mistakes  the 
moon  for  the  target,  but  is  discovered  in  sea- 
son. "Don't  shoot  that,"  says  the  man  who 
loads  the  guns ;  "  there  's  a  lamp  behind  it." 
Three  scared  birds  in  the  window-recess  try 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  11 

vainly  to  snatch  a  moment's  sleep  between 
shots  and  the  trains  that  go  roaring  over-head 
on  the  elevated  road.  Roused  by  the  sharp 
crack  of  the  rifles,  they  blink  at  the  lights  in 
the  street,  and  peck  moodily  at  a  crust  in 
their  bed  of  shavings. 

The  dime-musenm  gong  clatters  out  its 
noisy  warning  that  "  the  lecture  "  is  about  to 
begin.  From  the  concert-hall,  where  men  sit 
drinking  beer  in  clouds  of  smoke,  comes  the 
thin  voice  of  a  short-skirted  singer  warbling, 
*'  Do  they  think  of  me  at  home  ?  "  The  young 
fellow  who  sits  near  the  door,  abstractedly 
making  figures  in  the  wet  track  of  the 
"schooners,"  buries  something  there  with  a 
sudden  restless  turn,  and  calls  for  another 
beer.  Out  in  the  street  a  band  strikes  up. 
A  host  with  banners  advances,  chanting  an 
unfamiliar  hymn.  In  the  ranks  marches  a 
cripple  on  crutches.  Newsboys  follow,  gap- 
ing. Under  the  illuminated  clock  of  the 
Cooper  Institute  the  procession  halts,  and  the 
leader,  turning  his  face  to  the  sky,  offers  a 
prayer.  The  passing  crowds  stop  to  listen. 
A  few  bare  their  heads.  The  devoted  group, 
the  flapping  banners,  and  the  changing  torch- 
light on  upturned  faces,  make  a  strange, 
weird  picture.     Then  the  drum-beat,  and  the 


12  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

band  files  into  its  barracks  across  the  street. 
A  few  of  the  listeners  follow,  among  them 
the  lad  from  the  concert-hall,  who  slinks 
shamefacedly  in  when  he  thinks  no  one  is 
looking. 

Down  at  the  foot  of  the  Bowery  is  the 
'^  pan-handlers'  beat,"  where  the  saloons  elbow 
one  another  at  every  step,  crowding  out  all 
other  business  than  that  of  keeping  lodgers 
to  support  them.  Within  call  of  it,  across 
the  square,  stands  a  church  which,  in  the 
memory  of  men  yet  living,  was  built  to  shel- 
ter the  fashionable  Baptist  audiences  of  a 
day  when  Madison  Square  was  out  in  the 
fields,  and  Harlem  had  a  foreign  sound.  The 
fashionable  audiences  are  gone  long  since. 
To-day  the  church,  fallen  into  premature  de- 
cay, but  still  handsome  in  its  strong  and  noble 
lines,  stands  as  a  missionary  outpost  in  the 
land  of  the  enemy,  its  builders  would  have 
said,  doing  a  greater  work  than  they  planned. 
To-night  is  the  Christmas  festival  of  its  Eng- 
lish-speaking Sunday-school,  and  the  pews  are 
fiUed.  The  banners  of  United  Italy,  of  mod- 
ern Hellas,  of  France  and  Germany  and  Eng- 
land, hang  side  by  side  with  the  Chinese 
dragon  and  the  starry  flag— signs  of  the 
cosmopolitan  character  of  the  congregation. 


IN  THE  TENEMENTS  13 

Greek  and  Roman  Catholics,  Jews  and  joss- 
worshipers,  go  there  J  few  Protestants,  and 
no  Baptists.  It  is  easy  to  pick  out  the  chil- 
dren in  their  seats  by  nationality,  and  as  easy 
to  read  the  story  of  poverty  and  suffering  that 
stands  written  in  more  than  one  mother's 
haggard  face,  now  beaming  with  pleasure  at 
the  little  ones'  glee.  A  gaily  decorated  Christ- 
mas tree  has  taken  the  place  of  the  pulpit. 
At  its  foot  is  stacked  a  mountain  of  bundles, 
Santa  Claus's  gifts  to  the  school.  A  seK-con- 
scious  young  man  with  soap-locks  has  just 
been  allowed  to  retire,  amid  tumultuous  ap- 
plause, after  blowing  '^  Nearer,  my  God,  to 
thee"  on  his  horn  until  his  cheeks  swelled 
almost  to  bursting.  A  trumpet  ever  takes 
the  Fourth  Ward  by  storm.  A  class  of  little 
girls  is  climbing  upon  the  platform.  Each 
wears  a  capital  letter  on  her  breast,  and  has 
a  piece  to  speak  that  begins  with  the  letter ; 
together  they  spell  its  lesson.  There  is  mo- 
mentary consternation :  one  is  missing.  As 
the  discovery  is  made,  a  child  pushes  past  the 
doorkeeper,  hot  and  breathless.  ''I  am  in 
'  Boundless  Love,' "  she  says,  and  makes  for 
the  platform,  where  her  arrival  restores  con- 
fidence and  the  language. 

In  the  audience  the  befrocked  visitor  from 


14:  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

up-town  sits  cheek  by  jowl  with  the  pigt ailed 
Chinaman  and  the  dark-browed  Italian.  Up 
in  .the  gallery,  farthest  from  the  preacher's 
desk  and  the  tree,  sits  a  Jewish  mother  with 
three  boys,  almost  in  rags.  A  dingy  and 
threadbare  shawl  partly  hides  her  poor  calico 
wrap  and  patched  apron.  The  woman  shrinks 
in  the  pew,  fearful  of  being  seen ;  her  boys 
stand  upon  the  benches,  and  applaud  with  the 
rest.  She  endeavors  vainly  to  restrain  them. 
^'  Tick,  tick ! "  goes  the  old  clock  over  the  door 
through  which  wealth  and  fashion  went  out 
long  years  ago,  and  poverty  came  in. 

Tick,  tick !  the  world  moves,  with  us— 
without ;  without  or  with.  She  is  the  yester- 
day, they  the  to-morrow.  What  shall  the 
harvest  be ! 

Loudly  ticked  the  old  clock  in  time  with 
the  doxology,  the  other  day,  when  they 
cleared  the  tenants  out  of  Gotham  Court 
down  here  in  Cherry  street,  and  shut  the  iron 
doors  of  Single  and  Double  Alley  against 
them.  Never  did  the  world  move  faster  or 
surer  toward  a  better  day  than  when  the 
wretched  slum  was  seized  by  the  health- 
ofScers  as  a  nuisance  unfit  longer  to  disgrace 
a  Christian  city.  The  snow  lies  deep  in  the 
deserted  passageways,  and  the  vacant  floors 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  15 

are  given  over  to  evil  smells^  and  to  the  rats 
that  forage  in  squads,  burrowing  in  the  neg- 
lected sewers.  The  "wall  of  wrath"  still 
towers  above  the  buildings  in  the  adjoining 
Alderman's  Court,  but  its  wrath  at  last  is 
wasted. 

It  was  built  by  a  vengeful  Quaker,  whom 
the  alderman  had  knocked  down  in  a  quar. 
rel  over  the  boundary-line,  and  transmitted 
its  legacy  of  hate  to  generations  yet  unborn  ; 
for  where  it  stood  it  shut  out  sunlight  and 
air  from  the  tenements  of  Alderman's  Court. 
And  at  last  it  is  to  go,  Gotham  Court  and 
all ;  and  to  the  going  the  wall  of  wi-ath  has 
contributed  its  share,  thus  in  the  end  aton- 
ing for  some  of  the  harm  it  wrought.  Tick  ! 
old  clock  J  the  world  moves.  Never  yet  did 
Christmas  seem  less  dark  on  Cherry  Hill 
than  since  the  lights  were  put  out  in  Gotham 
Court  forever. 

In  "the  Bend"  the  philanthropist  under- 
taker who  "buries  for  what  he  can  catch  on 
the  plate"  hails  the  Yule-tide  season  with  a 
pyramid  of  green  made  of  two  coffins  set  on 
end.  It  has  been  a  good  day,  he  says  cheer- 
fully, putting  up  the  shutters ;  and  his  mind 
is  easy.  But  the  "  good  days "  of  the  Bend 
are  over,  too.    The  Bend  itself  is  all  but  gone. 


16  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

Where  the  old  pigsty  stood,  children  dance  and 
sing  to  the  strumming  of  a  cracked  piano- 
organ  propelled  on  wheels  by  an  Italian  and 
his  wife.  The  park  that  has  come  to  take  the 
place  of  the  slum  will  curtail  the  undertaker's 
profits,  as  it  has  lessened  the  work  of  the  po- 
lice. Murder  was  the  fashion  of  the  day  that 
is  past.  Scarce  a  knife  has  been  drawn  since 
the  sunlight  shone  into  that  evil  spot,  and 
grass  and  green  shrubs  took  the  place  of  the 
old  rookeries.  The  Christmas  gospel  of  peace 
and  good- will  moves  in  where  the  slum  moves 
out.     It  never  had  a  chance  before. 

The  children  f oUow  the  organ,  stepping  in 
the  slush  to  the  music,— bareheaded  and  with 
torn  shoes,  but  happy,— across  the  Five  Points 
and  through  "  the  Bay,"— known  to  the  direc- 
tory as  Baxter  street,— to  "the  Divide,"  stiU 
Chatham  street  to  its  denizens  though  the 
aldermen  have  rechristened  it  Park  Row. 
There  other  delegations  of  Greek  and  Italian 
children  meet  and  escort  the  music  on  its 
homeward  trip.  In  one  of  the  crooked  streets 
near  the  river  its  journey  comes  to  an  end. 
A  battered  door  opens  to  let  it  in.  A  tallow 
dip  burns  sleepily  on  the  creaking  stairs.  The 
water  runs  with  a  loud  clatter  in  the  sink :  it 
is  to  keep  it  from  freezing.     There  is  not  a 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  17 

whole  window-pane  in  tlie  hall.  Time  was 
when  this  was  a  fine  house  harboring  wealth 
and  refinement.  It  has  neither  now.  In  the 
old  parlor  down-stairs  a  knot  of  hard-faced 
men  and  women  sit  on  benches  about  a  deal 
table,  playing  cards.  They  have  a  jug  between 
them,  from  which  they  drink  by  turns.  On 
the  stump  of  a  mantel-shelf  a  lamp  burns  be- 
fore a  rude  print  of  the  Mother  of  God.  No 
one  pays  any  heed  to  the  hand-organ  man  and 
his  wife  as  they  climb  to  their  attic.  There 
is  a  colony  of  them  up  there— three  families 
in  four  rooms. 

"  Come  in,  Antonio,"  says  the  tenant  of  the 
double  flat,— the  one  with  two  rooms,— "  come 
and  keep  Christmas."  Antonio  enters,  cap  in 
hand.  In  the  corner  by  the  dormer-window 
a  "  crib  "  has  been  fitted  up  in  commemoration 
of  the  Nativity.  A  soap-box  and  two  hem- 
lock branches  are  the  elements.  Six  tallow 
candles  and  a  night-light  illuminate  a  singu- 
lar collection  of  rarities,  set  out  with  much 
ceremonial  show.  A  doll  tightly  wi*apped  in 
swaddling-clothes  represents  '^the  Child." 
Over  it  stands  a  ferocious-looking  beast, 
easily  recognized  as  a  survival  of  the  last 
political  campaign,— the  Tammany  tiger,— 
threatening  to  swallow  it  at  a  gulp  if  one  as 


18  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

much  as  takes  one's  eyes  off  it.  A  miniature 
Santa  Claus,  a  pasteboard  monkey,  and  sev- 
eral other  articles  of  bric-a-brac  of  the  kind 
the  tenement  affords,  complete  the  outfit.  The 
background  is  a  picture  of  St.  Donato,  their 
village  saint,  with  the  Madonna  ''  whom  they 
worship  most."  But  the  incongruity  harbors 
no  suggestion  of  disrespect.  The  children 
view  the  strange  show  with  genuine  reverence, 
bowing  and  crossing  themselves  before  it. 
There  are  five,  the  oldest  a  girl  of  seventeen, 
who  works  for  a  sweater,  making  three  dollars 
a  week.  It  is  all  the  money  that  comes  in,  for 
the  father  has  been  sick  and  unable  to  work 
eight  months  and  the  mother  has  her  hands 
full :  the  youngest  is  a  baby  in  arms.  Three 
of  the  children  go  to  a  charity  school,  where 
they  are  fed,  a  great  help,  now  the  holidays 
have  come  to  make  work  slack  for  sister.  The 
rent  is  six  dollars— two  weeks'  pay  out  of  the 
four.  The  mention  of  a  possible  chance  of 
light  work  for  the  man  brings  the  daughter 
with  her  sewing  from  the  adjoining  room, 
eager  to  hear.  That  would  be  Christmas  in- 
deed !  '^  Pietro  !  "  She  runs  to  the  neighbors 
to  communicate  the  joyful  tidings.  Pietro 
comes,  with  his  new-born  baby,  which  he  is 
tending  while  his  wife  lies  ill,  to  look  at  the 


IN  THE   TENEMENTS  19 

maestro,  so  powerful  and  good.  He  also  has 
been  out  of  work  for  months,  with  a  family 
of  mouths  to  fill,  and  nothing  coming  in.  His 
childi'en  are  all  small  yet,  but  they  speak 
English. 

"What,"  I  say,  holding  a  silver  dime  up 
before  the  oldest,  a  smart  little  chap  of  seven 
—  "what  would  you  do  if  I  gave  you  this?" 

"  Get  change,"  he  replies  promptly.  When 
he  is  told  that  it  is  his  own,  to  hiiy  toys  with, 
his  eyes  open  wide  with  wondering  incredulity. 
By  degrees  he  understands.  The  father  does 
not.  He  looks  questioningly  from  one  to  the 
other.  When  told,  his  respect  increases  visi- 
bly for  "  the  rich  gentleman." 

They  were  villagers  of  the  same  commu- 
nity in  southern  Italy,  these  people  and  others 
in  the  tenements  thereabouts,  and  they  moved 
their  patron  saint  with  them.  They  cluster 
about  his  worship  here,  but  the  worship  is 
more  than  an  empty  form.  He  typifies  to 
them  the  old  neighborliness  of  home,  the  spirit 
of  mutual  help,  of  charity,  and  of  the  common 
cause  against  the  common  enemy.  The  com- 
munity life  survives  through  their  saint  in 
the  far  city  to  an  unsuspected  extent.  The 
sick  are  cared  for;  the  dreaded  hospital  is 
fenced  out.     There  are  no  Italian  evictions. 


20  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

The  saint  has  paid  the  rent  of  this  attic  through 
two  hard  months  5  and  here  at  his  shrine  the 
Calabrian  village  gathers,  in  the  persons  of 
these  three,  to  do  him  honor  on  Christmas 
eve. 

Where  the  old  Africa  has  been  made  over 
into  a  modern  Italy,  since  King  Humbert's 
cohorts  struck  the  up-town  trail,  three  hun- 
dred of  the  little  foreigners  are  having  an 
uproarious  time  over  their  Christmas  tree  in 
the  Children's  Aid  Society's  school.  And 
well  they  may,  for  the  like  has  not  been  seen 
in  Sullivan  street  in  this  generation.  Christ- 
mas trees  are  rather  rarer  over  here  than  on 
the  East  Side,  where  the  German  leavens  the 
lump  with  his  loyalty  to  home  traditions. 
This  is  loaded  with  silver  and  gold  and  toys 
without  end,  until  there  is  little  left  of  the 
original  green.  Santa  Claus's  sleigh  must 
have  been  upset  in  a  snow-drift  over  here, 
and  righted  by  throwing  the  cargo  overboard, 
for  there  is  at  least  a  wagon-load  of  things 
that  can  find  no  room  on  the  tree.  The  ap- 
pearance of  "teacher"  with  a  double  armful 
of  curly-headed  dolls  in  red,  yellow,  and 
green  Mother-Hubbards,  doubtful  how  to  dis- 
pose of  them,  provokes  a  shout  of  approval, 
which  is  presently  quieted  by  the  principal's 


IN  THE   TENEMENTS  21 

bell.  School  is  ''  in/'  for  the  preliminary  ex- 
ercises. Afterward  there  are  to  be  the  tree 
and  ice-cream  for  the  good  children.  In  their 
anxiety  to  prove  their  title  clear,  they  sit  so 
straight,  with  arms  folded,  that  the  whole 
row  bends  over  backward.  The  lesson  is 
brief,  the  answers  to  the  point. 

'^What  do  we  receive  at  Christmas?"  the 
teacher  wants  to  know.  The  whole  school 
responds  with  a  shout,  ^'  Dolls  and  toys ! " 
To  the  question,  ^'Why  do  we  receive  them 
at  Christmas  ? "  the  answer  is  not  so  prompt. 
But  one  youngster  from  Thompson  street 
holds  up  his  hand.  He  knows.  "Because 
we  always  get  'em,"  he  says ;  and  the  class  is 
convinced :  it  is  a  fact.  A  baby  wails  because 
it  cannot  get  the  whole  tree  at  once.  The 
'^little  mother"— her seK  a  child  of  less  than 
a  dozen  winters— who  has  it  in  charge  cooes 
over  it,  and  soothes  its  grief  with  the  aid  of  a 
surreptitious  sponge-cake  evolved  from  the 
depths  of  teacher's  pocket.  Babies  are  en- 
couraged in  these  schools,  though  not  origi- 
nally included  in  their  plan,  as  often  the  one 
condition  upon  which  the  older  children  can 
be  reached.  Some  one  has  to  mind  the  baby, 
with  all  hands  out  at  work. 

The  school  sings  "  Santa  Lucia"  and  "Chil- 


22  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

dren   of  the  Heavenly  King,"   and  baby  is 
lulled  to  sleep. 

'^Who  is  tbis  King?"  asks  the  teaeber,  sud- 
denly, at  tbe  end  of  a  verse.  Momentary 
stupefaction.  Tbe  little  minds  are  on  ice- 
cream just  tbenj  tbe  lad  nearest  tbe  door 
has  telegraphed  that  it  is  being  carried  up  in 
pails.  A  little  fellow  on  tbe  back  seat  saves 
tbe  day.     Up  goes  bis  brown  fist. 

^^Well,Vito,wboisbe?" 

"  McKinley !  "  shouts  tbe  lad,  who  remem- 
bers the  election  just  pastj  and  the  school 
adjourns  for  ice-cream. 

It  is  a  sight  to  see  them  eat  it.  In  a  score 
of  such  schools,  from  tbe  Hook  to  Harlem, 
the  sight  is  enjoyed  in  Christmas  week  by  the 
men  and  women  who,  out  of  their  own  pock- 
ets, reimburse  Santa  Claus  for  his  outlay,  and 
count  it  a  joy— as  well  they  may;  for  their 
beneficence  sometimes  makes  the  one  bright 
spot  in  lives  that  have  suffered  of  all  wrongs 
the  most  cruel— that  of  being  despoiled  of 
their  childhood.  Sometimes  they  are  little 
Bohemians ;  sometimes  tbe  children  of  refu- 
gee Jews ;  and  again,  Itahans,  or  the  descen- 
dants of  the  Irish  stock  of  HeU's  Kitchen 
and  Poverty  Row;  always  the  poorest,  the 
shabbiest,  the  hungriest— the  children  Santa 


IN   THE   TEXEIVIENTS  23 

Clans  loves  best  to  find,  if  any  one  vriU.  show 
him  the  way.  Having  so  much  on  hand,  he 
has  no  time,  you  see,  to  look  them  up  him- 
self. That  must  be  done  for  him ;  and  it  is 
done.  To  the  teacher  in  this  Sullivan-street 
school  came  one  little  girl,  this  last  Christmas, 
with  anxious  inquiry  if  it  was  true  that  he 
came  around  with  toys. 

''  I  hanged  my  stocking  last  time,"  she  said, 
''  and  he  did  n't  come  at  all."  In  the  front 
house  indeed,  he  left  a  drum  and  a  doll,  but 
no  message  from  him  reached  the  rear  house 
in  the  alley.  "  Maybe  he  could  n't  find  it," 
she  said  soberly.  Did  the  teacher  think  he 
would  come  if  she  wrote  to  him?  She  had 
learned  to  write. 

Together  they  composed  a  note  to  Santa 
Claus,  speaking  for  a  doll  and  a  bell— the  bell 
to  play  '^go  to  school"  with  when  she  was 
kept  home  minding  the  baby.  Lest  he  should 
by  any  chance  miss  the  alley  in  spite  of 
directions,  Uttle  Rosa  was  in\dted  to  hang  her 
stocking,  and  her  sister's,  with  the  janitor's 
children's  in  the  school.  And  lo  !  on  Christ- 
mas morning  there  was  a  gorgeous  doll,  and 
a  bell  that  was  a  whole  curriculum  in  itself, 
as  good  as  a  year's  schooling  any  day  !  Faith 
in  Santa  Claus  is  established  in  that  Thomp- 


24  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

son-street  alley  for  this  generation  at  least ; 
and  Santa  Claus,  got  by  hook  or  by  crook  into 
an  Eighth- Ward  alley,  is  as  good  as  the  whole 
Supreme  Court  bench,  with  the  Court  of  Ap- 
peals thrown  in,  for  backing  the  Board  of 
Health  against  the  slum. 

But  the  ice-cream !  They  eat  it  off  the 
seats,  half  of  them  kneeling  or  squatting  on 
the  floor ;  they  blow  on  it,  and  put  it  in  their 
pockets  to  carry  home  to  baby.  Two  little 
shavers  discovered  to  be  feeding  each  other, 
each  watching  the  smack  develop  on  the 
other's  lips  as  the  acme  of  his  own  bliss,  are 
^^ cousins";  that  is  why.  Of  cake  there  is  a 
double  supply.  It  is  a  dozen  years  since 
^'Fighting  Mary,"  the  wildest  child  in  the 
Seventh- Avenue  school,  taught  them  a  lesson 
there  which  they  have  never  forgotten.  She 
was  perfectly  untamable,  fighting  everybody 
in  school,  the  despair  of  her  teacher,  till  on 
Thanksgiving,  reluctantly  included  in  the  gen- 
eral amnesty  and  mince-pie,  she  was  caught 
cramming  the  pie  into  her  pocket,  after  e}dng 
it  with  a  look  of  pure  ecstasy,  but  refusing  to 
touch  it.  ^'For  mother"  was  her  explana- 
tion, delivered  with  a  defiant  look  before 
which  the  class  quailed.  It  is  recorded,  but 
not  in  the  minutes,  that  the  board  of  man- 


IN   THE  TENEMENTS  25 

agers  wept  over  Fighting  Mary,  who,  all  un- 
conscious of  having  caused  such  an  astonish- 
ing "break,"  was  at  that  moment  engaged  in 
maintaining  her  prestige  and  reputation  by 
fighting  the  gang  in  the  next  block.  The 
minutes  contain  merely  a  formal  resolution  to 
the  effect  that  occasions  of  mince-pie  shall 
carry  double  rations  thenceforth.  And  the 
rule  has  been  kept— not  only  in  Seventh- Ave- 
nue, but  in  every  industrial  school— since. 
Fighting  Mary  won  the  biggest  fight  of  her 
troubled  life  that  day,  without  striking  a 
blow. 

It  was  in  the  Seventh-Avenue  school  last 
Christmas  that  I  offered  the  truant  class  a 
four-bladed  penknife  as  a  prize  for  whittling 
out  the  truest  Maltese  cross.  It  was  a  class 
of  black  sheep,  and  it  was  the  blackest  sheep 
of  the  flock  that  won  the  prize.  "  That  awful 
Savarese,"  said  the  principal  in  despair.  I 
thought  of  Fighting  Mary,  and  bade  her  take 
heart.  I  regret  to  say  that  within  a  week  the 
hapless  Savarese  was  black-listed  for  banking 
up  the  school  door  with  snow,  so  that  not  even 
the  janitor  could  get  out  and  at  him. 

Within  hail  of  the  SuUivan-street  school 
camps  a  scattered  little  band,  the  Christmas 
customs  of  which  I  had  been  trying  for  years 


26  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

to  surprise.  They  are  Indians,  a  handful  of 
Mohawks  and  Iroquois,  whom  some  iU  wind 
has  blown  down  from  their  Canadian  reserva- 
tion, and  left  in  these  West-Side  tenements  to 
eke  out  such  a  living  as  they  can  weaving 
mats  and  baskets,  and  threading  glass  pearls 
on  slippers  and  pin- cushions,  until,  one  after 
another,  they  have  died  off  and  gone  to  hap- 
pier hunting-grounds  than  Thompson  street. 
There  were  as  many  families  as  one  could 
count  on  the  fingers  of  both  hands  when  I 
first  came  upon  them,  at  the  death  of  old 
Tamenund,  the  basket-maker.  Last  Christ- 
mas there  were  seven.  I  had  about  made  up 
my  mind  that  the  only  real  Americans  in  New 
York  did  not  keep  the  holiday  at  all,  when> 
one  Christmas  eve,  they  showed  me  how. 
Just  as  dark  was  setting  in,  old  Mrs.  Benoit 
came  from  her  Hudson-street  attic— where 
she  was  known  among  the  neighbors,  as  old 
and  poor  as  she,  as  Mrs.  Ben  Wah,  and  be- 
lieved to  be  the  relict  of  a  warrior  of  the 
name  of  Benjamin  Wah— to  the  office  of  the 
Charity  Organization  Society,  with  a  bundle 
for  a  friend  who  had  helped  her  over  a  rough 
spot— the  rent,  I  suppose.  The  bundle  was 
done  up  elaborately  in  blue  cheese-cloth,  and 
contained  a  lot  of  little  garments  which  she 


IN  THE   TENEMENTS  27 

had  made  out  of  the  remnants  of  blankets  and 
cloth  of  her  own  from  a  younger  and  better 
day.  ^'For  those,"  she  said,  in  her  French 
patois,  "  who  are  poorer  than  myself " ;  and 
hobbled  away.  I  found  out,  a  few  days  later, 
when  I  took  her  picture  weaving  mats  in  her 
attic  room,  that  she  had  scarcely  food  in  the 
house  that  Christmas  day  and  not  the  car-fare 
to  take  her  to  church !  Walking  was  bad, 
and  her  old  limbs  were  stiff.  She  sat  by 
the  window  through  the  winter  evening,  and 
watched  the  sun  go  down  behind  the  western 
hills,  comforted  by  her  pipe.  Mrs.  Ben  Wah, 
to  give  her  her  local  name,  is  not  really  an 
Indian;  but  her  husband  was  one,  and  she 
lived  all  her  life  with  the  tribe  till  she  came 
here.  She  is  a  philosopher  in  her  own  quaint 
way.  "  It  is  no  disgrace  to  be  poor,"  said  she 
to  me,  regarding  her  empty  tobacco-pouch ; 
"  but  it  is  sometimes  a  great  inconvenience." 
Not  even  the  recollection  of  the  vote  of  cen- 
sure that  was  passed  upon  me  once  by  the 
ladies  of  the  Charitable  Ten  for  surrep- 
titiously supplying  an  aged  couple,  the  special 
object  of  their  charity,  with  army  plug,  could 
have  deterred  me  from  taking  the  hint. 

Very  likely,  my  old  friend  Miss  Sherman,  in 
her  Broome-street  cellar,— it  is   always  the 


28  MERRY   CHRISTMAS 

attic  or  the  cellar^— would  object  to  Mrs.  Ben 
Wah's  claim  to  being  the  only  real  American 
in  my  note-book.  She  is  from  down  East, 
and  says  ''  stun  "  for  stone.  In  her  youth  she 
was  lady's-maid  to  a  general's  wife,  the  recol- 
lection of  which  military  career  equally  con- 
dones the  cellar  and  prevents  her  holding  any 
sort  of  communication  with  her  common 
neighbors,  who  add  to  the  offense  of  being 
foreigners  the  unpardonable  one  of  being 
mostly  men.  Eight  cats  bear  her  steady  com- 
pany, and  keep  alive  her  starved  affections. 
I  found  them  on  last  Christmas  eve  behind 
barricaded  doors ;  for  the  cold  that  had  locked 
the  water-pipes  had  brought  the  neighbors 
down  to  the  cellar,  where  Miss  Sherman's 
cunning  had  kept  them  from  freezing.  Their 
tin  pans  and  buckets  were  even  then  bang- 
ing against  her  door.  "  They  're  a  miserable 
lot,"  said  the  old  maid,  fondling  her  cats  de- 
fiantly; ''but  let 'em.  It 's  Christmas.  Ah!" 
she  added,  as  one  of  the  eight  stood  up  in 
her  lap  and  rubbed  its  cheek  against  hers, 
"they  're  innocent.  It  is  n't  poor  little  ani- 
mals that  does  the  harm.  It 's  men  and  wo- 
men that  does  it  to  each  other."  I  don't 
know  whether  it  was  just  philosophy,  like 
Mrs.  Ben  Wah's,  or  a  glimpse  of  her  story. 
If  she  had  one,  she  kept  it  for  her  cats. 


IN  THE  TENEMENTS  29 

In  a  hundred  places  all  over  the  city,  when 
Christmas  comes,  as  many  open-air  fairs 
spring  suddenly  into  life.  A  kind  of  Gen- 
tile Feast  of  Tabernacles  possesses  the  tene- 
ment districts  especially.  Green-embowered 
booths  stand  in  rows  at  the  curb,  and  the 
voice  of  the  tin  trumpet  is  heard  in  the  land. 
The  common  source  of  all  the  show  is  down 
by  the  North  River,  in  the  district  known  as 
''  the  Farm."  Down  there  Santa  Claus  estab- 
lishes headquarters  early  in  December  and 
until  past  New  Year.  The  broad  quay  looks 
then  more  like  a  clearing  in  a  pine-forest 
than  a  busy  section  of  the  metropolis.  The 
steamers  discharge  their  loads  of  fii'-trees  at 
the  piers  until  they  stand  stacked  mountain- 
high,  with  foot-hills  of  holly  and  ground-ivy 
trailing  off  toward  the  land  side.  An  army- 
train  of  wagons  is  engaged  in  carting  them 
away  from  early  morning  till  late  at  night ; 
but  the  green  forest  grows,  in  spite  of  it  all, 
until  in  places  it  shuts  the  shipping  out  of 
sight  altogether.  The  air  is  redolent  with  the 
smell  of  balsam  and  pine.  After  nightfall, 
when  the  lights  are  burning  in  the  busy 
market,  and  the  homeward-bound  crowds 
with  baskets  and  heavy  burdens  of  Christmas 
greens  jostle  one  another  with  good-natured 
banter,— nobody  is  ever  cross  down  here  in 


30  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

the  holiday  season,— it  is  good  to  take  a 
stroll  through  the  Farm,  if  one  has  a  spot  in 
his  heart  faithful  yet  to  the  hills  and  the 
woods  in  spite  of  the  latter-day  city.  But  it 
is  when  the  moonlight  is  upon  the  water  and 
upon  the  dark  phantom  forest,  when  the 
heavy  breathing  of  some  passing  steamer  is 
the  only  sound  that  breaks  the  stillness  of 
the  night,  and  the  watchman  smokes  his 
only  pipe  on  the  bulwark,  that  the  Farm  has 
a  mood  and  an  atmosphere  all  its  own,  full  of 
poetry,  which  some  day  a  painter's  brush  will 
catch  and  hold. 

Into  the  ugliest  tenement  street  Christmas 
brings  something  of  picturesqueness  as  of 
cheer.  Its  message  was  ever  to  the  poor  and 
the  hea^'y-laden,  and  by  them  it  is  understood 
with  an  instinctive  yearning  to  do  it  honor. 
In  the  stiff  dignity  of  the  brownstone  streets 
up-town  there  may  be  scarce  a  hint  of  it.  In 
the  homes  of  the  poor  it  blossoms  on  stoop 
and  fire-escape,  looks  out  of  the  front  window, 
and  makes  the  unsightly  barber-pole  to  sprout 
overnight  like  an  Aaron's  rod.  Poor  indeed 
is  the  home  that  has  not  its  sign  of  peace  over 
the  hearth,  be  it  but  a  single  sprig  of  green. 
A  little  color  creeps  with  it  even  into  rabbini- 
cal Hester  street,  and  shows  in  the  shop- win- 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  31 

dows  and  in  the  children's  faces.  The  very 
feather-dusters  in  the  peddler's  stock  take  on 
brighter  hues  for  the  occasion,  and  the  big- 
knives  in  the  cutler's  shop  gleam  with  a  lively 
anticipation  of  the  impending  goose  '^with 
fixin's"— a  concession,  perhaps,  to  the  com- 
mercial rather  than  the  rehgious  holiday: 
business  comes  then,  if  ever.  A  crowd  of 
ragamuffins  camp  out  at  a  window  where 
Santa  Glaus  and  his  wife  stand  in  state,  em- 
bodiment of  the  domestic  ideal  that  has  not 
yet  gone  out  of  fashion  in  these  tenements, 
gazing  hungrily  at  the  announcement  that  ^'A 
silver  present  will  be  given  to  every  purchaser 
by  a  real  Santa  Glaus.— M.  Levitsky."  Across 
the  way,  in  a  hole  in  the  wall,  two  cobblers 
are  pegging  away  under  an  oozy  lamp  that 
makes  a  yellow  splurge  on  the  inky  blackness 
about  them,  revealing  to  the  passer-by  their 
bearded  faces,  but  nothing  of  the  environ- 
ment save  a  single  sprig  of  holly  suspended 
from  the  lamp.  From  what  forgotten  brake 
it  came  with  a  message  of  cheer,  a  thought  of 
wife  and  children  across  the  sea  waiting  their 
summons,  God  knows.  The  shop  is  their 
house  and  home.  It  was  once  the  hall  of  the 
tenement ;  but  to  save  space,  enough  has  been 
walled  in  to  make  room  for  their  bench  and 


32  MERRY  CHRIST:!.LA.S 

bed.  The  tenants  go  through  the  next  house. 
No  matter  if  they  are  cramped ;  by  and  by  they 
will  have  room.  By  and  by  comes  the  spring, 
and  with  it  the  steamer.  Does  not  the  green 
branch  speak  of  spring  and  of  hope  ?  The  po- 
liceman on  the  beat  hears  their  hammers  beat 
a  joyous  tattoo  past  midnight,  far  into  Christ- 
mas morning.  Who  shall  say  its  message 
has  not  reached  even  them  in  their  slum  ? 

Where  the  noisy  trains  speed  over  the  iron 
highway  past  the  second-story  windows  of 
Allen  street,  a  cellar  door  yawns  darkly  in  the 
shadow  of  one  of  the  pillars  that  half  block 
the  narrow  sidewalk.  A  dull  gleam  behind 
the  cobweb-shrouded  window-pane  supple- 
ments the  sign  over  the  door,  in  Yiddish  and 
English :  '^  Old  Brasses."  Four  crooked  and 
moldy  steps  lead  to  utter  darkness,  with  no 
friendly  voice  to  guide  the  hapless  customer. 
Fumbling  along  the  dank  wall,  he  is  left  to 
find  the  door  of  the  shop  as  best  he  can.  Not 
a  likely  place  to  encounter  the  fastidious  from 
the  Avenue  !  Yet  ladies  in  furs  and  silk  find 
this  door  and  the  grim  old  smith  within  it. 
Now  and  then  an  artist  stumbles  upon  them, 
and  exults  exceedingly  in  his  find.  Two  holi- 
day shoppers  are  even  now  haggling  with  tbe 
coppersmith  over  the  price  of  a  pair  of  cui'i- 


IN  THE   TENEMENTS  33 

ously  wrought  brass  candle-sticks.  The  old 
man  has  turned  from  the  forge,  at  which  he 
was  working,  unmindful  of  his  callers  roving 
among  the  dusty  shelves.  Standing  there, 
erect  and  sturdy,  in  his  shiny  leather  apron, 
hammer  in  hand,  with  the  firelight  upon  his 
venerable  head,  strong  arms  bared  to  the 
elbow,  and  the  square  paper  cap  pushed  back 
from  a  thoughtful,  knotty  brow,  he  stirs 
strange  fancies.  One  half  expects  to  see  him 
fashioning  a  gorget  or  a  sword  on  his  anvil. 
But  his  is  a  more  peaceful  craft.  Nothing 
more  warlike  is  in  sight  than  a  row  of  brass 
shields,  destined  for  ornament,  not  for  battle. 
Dark  shadows  chase  one  another  by  the  flick- 
ering light  among  copper  kettles  of  ruddy 
glow,  old-fashioned  samovars,  and  massive 
andirons  of  tarnished  brass.  The  bargaining 
goes  on.  Overhead  the  nineteenth  century 
speeds  by  with  rattle  and  roar ;  in  here  linger 
the  shadows  of  the  centuries  long  dead.  The 
boy  at  the  anvil  listens  open-mouthed,  clutch- 
ing the  bellows-rope. 

In  Liberty  HaU  a  Jewish  wedding  is  in 
progress.  Liberty !  Strange  how  the  word 
echoes  through  these  sweaters'  tenements, 
where  starvation  is  at  home  half  the  time. 
It  is  as  an  all-consuming  passion  with  these 


34  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

people,  whose  spirit  a  thousand  years  of 
bondage  have  not  availed  to  daunt.  It 
breaks  out  in  strikes,  when  to  strike  is  to 
hunger  and  die.  Not  until  I  stood  by  a 
striking  cloakmaker  whose  last  cent  was 
gone,  with  not  a  crust  in  the  house  to  feed 
seven  hungry  mouths,  yet  who  had  voted 
vehemently  in  the  meeting  that  day  to  keep 
up  the  strike  to  the  bitter  end,— bitter  indeed, 
nor  far  distant,— and  heard  him  at  sunset  re- 
cite the  prayer  of  his  fathers:  ^^ Blessed  art 
thou,  O  Lord  our  God,  King  of  the  world,  that 
thou  hast  redeemed  us  as  thou  didst  redeem 
our  fathers,  hast  delivered  us  from  bondage 
to  liberty,  and  from  servile  dependence  to  re- 
demption !  "—not  until  then  did  I  know  what 
of  sacrifice  the  word  might  mean,  and  how  ut- 
terly we  of  another  day  had  forgotten.  But 
for  once  shop  and  tenement  are  left  behind. 
Whatever  other  days  may  have  in  store,  this 
is  their  day  of  play,  when  all  may  rejoice. 

The  bridegroom,  a  cloak-presser  in  a  hired 
dress-suit,  sits  alone  and  ill  at  ease  at  one 
end  of  the  hall,  sipping  whisky  with  a  fine 
air  of  indifference,  but  glancing  apprehen- 
sively toward  the  crowd  of  women  in  the 
opposite  corner  that  surrounds  the  bride,  a 
pale  little  shop-girl  with  a  pleading,  winsome 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  35 

face.  From  somewhere  unexpectedly  appears 
a  big  man  in  an  ill-fitting  coat  and  skull  cap, 
flanked  on  either  side  by  a  fiddler,  who  scrapes 
away  and  away,  accompanying  the  improvi- 
sator in  a  plaintive  minor  key  as  he  halts 
before  the  bride  and  intones  his  lay.  With 
many  a  shrug  of  stooping  shoulders  and 
queer  excited  gesture,  he  di'ones,  in  the  harsh, 
guttural  Yiddish  of  Hester  street,  his  story 
of  life's  joys  and  sorrows,  its  struggles  and 
victories  in  the  land  of  promise.  The  women 
listen,  nodding  and  swaying  theii*  bodies  sym- 
pathetically. He  works  himself  into  a  frenzy, 
in  which  the  fiddlers  vainly  try  to  keep  up 
with  him.  He  turns  and  digs  the  laggard 
angrily  in  the  side  without  losing  the  meter. 
The  climax  comes.  The  bride  bursts  into 
hysterical  sobs,  while  the  women  wipe  their 
eyes.  A  plate,  heretofore  concealed  under  his 
coat,  is  whisked  out.  He  has  conquered; 
the  inevitable  collection  is  taken  up. 

The  tuneful  procession  moves  upon  the 
bridegroom.  An  Essex-street  girl  in  the 
crowd,  watching  them  go,  says  disdainfully : 
''None  of  this  humbug  when  I  get  married." 
It  is  the  straining  of  young  America  at  the 
fetters  of  tradition.  Ten  minutes  later,  when, 
between  double  files  of  women  holding  can- 


36  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

dies,  the  couple  pass  to  the  canopy  where  the 
rabbi  waits,  she  has  already  forgotten ;  and 
when  the  crunching  of  a  glass  under  the 
bridegroom's  heel  announces  that  they  are 
one,  and  that  until  the  broken  pieces  be 
reunited  he  is  hers  and  hers  alone,  she  joins 
with  all  the  company  in  the  exulting  shout 
of  "  Mozzel  tov !  "  (^'  Good  luck !  ")•  Then  the 
dujjJca,  men  and  women  joining  in,  forget- 
ting all  but  the  moment,  hands  on  hips,  step- 
ping in  time,  forward,  backward,  and  across. 
And  then  the  feast. 

They  sit  at  the  long  tables  by  squads  and 
tribes.  Those  who  belong  together  sit  to- 
gether. There  is  no  attempt  at  pairing  off 
for  conversation  or  mutual  entertainment,  at 
speech-making  or  toasting.  The  business  in 
hand  is  to  eat,  and  it  is  attended  to.  The 
bridegroom,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  with 
his  shiny  silk  hat  on,  sets  the  example ;  and 
the  guests  emulate  it  with  zeal,  the  men 
smoking  big,  strong  cigars  between  mouth- 
fuls.  ^^Gosh!  ain't  it  fine?"  is  the  grateful 
comment  of  one  curly-headed  youngster, 
bravely  attacking  his  third  plate  of  chicken- 
stew.  '^  Fine  as  silk,"  nods  his  neighbor  in 
knickerbockers.  Christmas,  for  once,  means 
something  to  them  that  they  can  understand. 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  37 

The  crowd  of  hurrying  waiters  make  room 
for  one  bearing  aloft  a  small  turkey  adorned 
with  much  tinsel  and  many  paper  flowers. 
It  is  for  the  bride,  the  one  thing  not  to  be 
touched  until  the  next  day— one  day  off  from 
the  drudgery  of  housekeeping ;  she,  too,  can 
keep  Christmas. 

A  group  of  bearded,  dark-browed  men  sit 
apart,  the  rabbi  among  them.  They  are  the 
orthodox,  who  cannot  break  bread  with  the 
rest,  for  fear,  though  the  food  be  kosher, 
the  plates  have  been  defiled.  They  brought 
their  own  to  the  feast,  and  sit  at  their  own 
table,  stern  and  justified.  Did  they  but  know 
what  depravity  is  harbored  in  the  impish 
mind  of  the  girl  yonder,  who  plans  to  hang 
her  stocking  overnight  hy  the  window  !  There 
is  no  fireplace  in  the  tenement.  Queer  things 
happen  over  here,  in  the  strife  between  the 
old  and  the  new.  The  girls  of  the  College 
Settlement,  last  summer,  felt  compelled  to 
explain  that  the  holiday  in  the  country  which 
they  offered  some  of  these  children  was  to  be 
spent  in  an  Episcopal  clergyman's  house, 
where  they  had  prayers  every  morning. 
"  Oh,"  was  the  indulgent  answer,  '^  they  know 
it  is  n't  true,  so  it  won't  hurt  them." 

The  bell  of  a  neighboring  church-tower 


38  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

strikes  the  vesper  hour.  A  man  in  working- 
clothes  uncovers  his  head  reverently,  and 
passes  on.  Through  the  vista  of  green  bow- 
ers formed  of  the  grocer's  stock  of  Christmas 
trees  a  passing  glimpse  of  flaring  torches  in 
the  distant  square  is  caught.  They  touch 
with  flame  the  gilt  cross  towering  high  above 
the  '^  White  Garden,"  as  the  German  resi- 
dents call  Tompkins  Square.  On  the  side- 
walk the  holy-eve  fair  is  in  its  busiest  hour. 
In  the  pine-board  booths  stand  rows  of  staring 
toy  dogs  alternately  with  plaster  saints.  Red 
apples  and  candy  are  hawked  from  carts. 
Peddlers  offer  colored  candles  with  shrill  out- 
cry. A  huckster  feeding  his  horse  by  the 
curb  scatters,  unseen,  a  share  for  the  spar- 
rows. The  cross  flashes  white  against  the 
dark  sky. 

In  one  of  the  side-streets  near  the  East 
River  has  stood  for  thirty  years  a  little 
mission  church,  called  Hope  Chapel  by  its 
founders,  in  the  brave  spirit  in  which  they 
built  it.  It  has  had  plenty  of  use  for  the 
spirit  since.  Of  the  kind  of  problems  that 
beset  its  pastor  I  caught  a  glimpse  the  other 
day,  when,  as  I  entered  his  room,  a  rough- 
looking  man  went  out. 

^'  One  of  my  cares,"  said  Mr.  Devins,  look- 
ing after  him  with  contracted  brow.     ''He 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  39 

has  spent  two  Christmas  days  of  twenty- three 
out  of  jail.  He  is  a  burglar,  or  was.  His 
daughter  has  brought  him  round.  She  is  a 
seamstress.  For  three  months,  now,  she  has 
been  keeping  him  and  the  home,  working 
nights.  If  I  could  only  get  him  a  job  !  He 
won't  stay  honest  long  without  it ;  but  w^ho 
wants  a  burglar  for  a  watchman  1  And  how 
can  I  recommend  him  ? " 

A  few  doors  from  the  chapel  an  alley  sets 
into  the  block.     We  halted  at  the  mouth  of  it. 

''Come  in,"  said  Mr.  De\dns,  "and  wish 
Blind  Jennie  a  Merry  Christmas." 

We  went  in,  in  single  file ;  there  was  not 
room  for  two.  As  we  climbed  the  creak- 
ing stairs  of  the  rear  tenement,  a  chorus  of 
children's  shrill  voices  burst  into  song  some- 
where above. 

"  It  is  her  class,"  said  the  pastor  of  Hope 
Chapel,  as  he  stopped  on  the  landing.  "  They 
are  all  kinds.  We  never  could  hope  to  reach 
them ;  Jennie  can.  They  fetch  her  the  papers 
given  out  in  the  Sunday-school,  and  read  to 
her  what  is  printed  under  the  pictures ;  and 
she  tells  them  the  story  of  it.  There  is  no- 
thing Jennie  does  n't  know  about  the  Bible." 

The  door  opened  upon  a  low-ceiled  room, 
where  the  evening  shades  lay  deep.  The  red 
glow  from  the  kitchen  stove  discovered  a  jam 


40  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

of  children,  young  girls  mostly,  perched  on  the 
table,  the  chairs,  in  one  another's  laps,  or  squat- 
ting on  the  floor ;  in  the  midst  of  them,  a  little 
old  woman  with  heavily  veiled  face,  and  wan, 
wrinkled  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  The  sing- 
ing ceased  as  we  stepped  across  the  threshold. 

"  Be  welcome,"  piped  a  harsh  voice  with  a 
singular  note  of  cheerfulness  in  it.  ^'  Whose 
step  is  that  with  you,  pastor  ?  I  don't  know 
it.  He  is  welcome  in  Jennie's  house,  who- 
ever he  be.  Girls,  make  him  to  home."  The 
girls  moved  up  to  make  room. 

"Jennie  has  not  seen  since  she  was  a 
child,"  said  the  clergyman,  gently j  "but  she 
knows  a  friend  without  it.  Some  day  she 
shall  see  the  great  Friend  in  his  glory,  and 
then  she  shall  be  Blind  Jennie  no  more." 

The  little  woman  raised  the  veil  from  a 
face  shockingly  disflgui'ed,  and  touched  the 
eyeless  sockets.  "Some  day,"  she  repeated, 
"  Jennie  shall  see.  Not  long  now— not  long !  " 
Her  pastor  patted  her  hand.  The  silence  of 
the  dark  room  was  broken  by  Blind  Jennie's 
voice,  rising  cracked  and  quavering:  "Alas! 
and  did  my  Saviour  bleed?"  The  shi-ill 
chorus  burst  in : 

It  was  there  by  faith  I  received  my  sight, 
And  now  I  am  happy  all  the  day. 


IN  THE   TENEMENTS  41 

The  light  that  falls  from  the  windows  of 
the  Neighborhood  Guild,  in  Delancey  street, 
makes  a  white  path  across  the  asphalt  pave- 
ment. Within  there  is  mirth  and  laughter. 
The  Tenth  Ward  Social  Reform  Club  is  hav- 
ing its  Christmas  festival.  Its  members,  poor 
mothers,  scrubwomen,— the  president  is  the 
janitress  of  a  tenement  near  by,— have 
brought  their  little  ones,  a  few  their  hus- 
bands, to  share  in  the  fun.  One  little  girl 
has  to  be  dragged  up  to  the  grab-bag.  She 
cries  at  the  sight  of  Santa  Claus.  The  baby 
has  drawn  a  woolly  horse.  He  kisses  the  toy 
with  a  look  of  ecstatic  bliss,  and  toddles 
away.  At  the  far  end  of  the  hall  a  game  of 
blindman's-buff  is  starting  up.  The  aged 
grandmother,  who  has  watched  it  with  grow- 
ing excitement,  bids  one  of  the  settlement 
workers  hold  her  grandchild,  that  she  may 
join  in ;  and  she  does  join  in,  with  all  the 
pent-uj)  hunger  of  fifty  joyless  years.  The 
worker,  looking  on,  smiles;  one  has  been 
reached.  Thus  is  the  battle  against  the  slum 
waged  and  won  with  the  child's  play. 

Tramp  !  tramp  !  comes  the  to-morrow  upon 
the  stage.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  paii's  of 
little  feet,  keeping  step,  are  marching  to  dinner 
in  the  Newsboys'  Lodging-house.     Five  hun- 


42  MEERY  CHRISTMAS 

dred  pairs  more  are  restlessly  awaiting  their 
turn  up-stairs.  In  prison,  hospital,  and  alms- 
house to-night  the  city  is  host,  and  gives  of 
her  plenty.  Here  an  unknown  friend  has 
spread  a  generous  repast  for  the  waifs  who 
all  the  rest  of  the  days  shift  for  themselves 
as  best  they  can.  Turkey,  coffee,  and  pie,  with 
"vegetubles"  to  fill  in.  As  the  file  of  eagle- 
eyed  youngsters  passes  down  the  long  tables, 
there  are  swift  movements  of  grimy  hands, 
and  shirt-waists  bulge,  ragged  coats  sag  at 
the  pockets.  Hardly  is  the  file  seated  when 
the  plaint  rises :  '^  I  ain't  got  no  pie  !  It  got 
swiped  on  me."  Seven  despoiled  ones  hold 
up  their  hands. 

The  superintendent  laughs— it  is  Christmas 
eve.  He  taps  one  tentatively  on  the  bulging 
shirt.     ^'  What  have  you  here,  my  lad  ? " 

"Me  pie,"  responds  he,  with  an  innocent 
look ;  "  I  wuz  scart  it  would  get  stole." 

A  little  fellow  who  has  been  eying  one  of 
the  visitors  attentively  takes  his  knife  out 
of  his  mouth,  and  points  it  at  him  with  con- 
viction. 

'^  I  know  you,"  he  pipes.  "  You  're  a  p'lice 
commissioner.  I  seen  yer  picter  in  the  papers. 
You  're  Teddy  Roosevelt !  " 

The  clatter  of  knives  and  forks  ceases  sud- 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  43 

denly.  Seven  pies  creep  stealthily  over  the 
edge  of  the  table,  and  are  replaced  on  as  many 
plates.  The  visitors  laugh.  It  was  a  case  of 
mistaken  identity. 

Farthest  down-town,  where  the  island  nar- 
rows toward  the  Battery,  and  warehouses 
crowd  the  few  remaining  tenements,  the  som- 
ber-hued  colony  of  Syrians  is  astir  with  prep- 
aration for  the  holiday.  How  comes  it  that 
in  the  only  settlement  of  the  real  Christmas 
people  in  New  York  the  corner  saloon  appro- 
priates to  itself  all  the  outward  signs  of  it? 
Even  the  floral  cross  that  is  nailed  over  the 
door  of  the  Orthodox  church  is  long  withered 
and  dead :  it  has  been  there  since  Easter,  and 
it  is  yet  twelve  days  to  Christmas  by  the  be- 
lated reckoning  of  the  Greek  Church.  But  if 
the  houses  show  no  sign  of  the  holiday,  within 
there  is  nothing  lacking.  The  whole  colony 
is  gone  a-visiting.  There  are  enough  of  the 
unorthodox  to  set  the  fashion,  and  the  rest 
follow  the  custom  of  the  countrj^  The  men 
go  from  house  to  house,  laugh,  shake  hands, 
and  kiss  one  another  on  both  cheeks,  with  the 
salutation,  '^Kol  am  va  antom  Salimoon." 
''  Every  year  and  you  are  safe,"  the  Syrian 
guide  renders  it  into  English ;  and  a  non-pro- 
fessional interpreter  amends  it:  "May  you 


44  MERRY   CHRISTMAS 

grow  happier  year  by  year."  Arrack  made 
from  grapes  and  flavored  with  aniseed,  and 
candy  baked  in  little  white  balls  like  marbles, 
are  served  with  the  indispensable  cigarette; 
for  long  callers,  the  pipe. 

In  a  top-fioor  room  of  one  of  the  darkest  of 
the  dilapidated  tenements,  the  dnsty  window- 
panes  of  which  the  last  glow  in  the  winter  sky 
is  tinging  faintly  with  red,  a  dance  is  in  prog- 
ress. The  guests,  most  of  them  fresh  from 
the  hillsides  of  Mount  Lebanon,  squat  about 
the  room.  A  reed-pipe  and  a  tambourine  fur- 
nish the  music.  One  has  the  center  of  the 
floor.  With  a  beer- jug  filled  to  the  brim  on 
his  head,  he  skips  and  sways,  bending,  twist- 
ing, kneeling,  gesturing,  and  keeping  time, 
while  the  men  clap  their  hands.  He  lies  down 
and  turns  over,  but  not  a  drop  is  spilled.  An- 
other succeeds  him,  stepping  proudly,  grace- 
fully, furling  and  unfurling  a  handkerchief 
like  a  banner.  As  he  sits  down,  and  the  beer 
goes  around,  one  in  the  corner,  who  looks  like 
a  shepherd  fresh  from  his  pasture,  strikes  up 
a  song— a  far-off,  lonesome,  plaintive  lay. 
" '  Far  as  the  hills,' "  says  the  guide ;  "  a  song 
of  the  old  days  and  the  old  people,  now  sel- 
dom heard."  All  together  croon  the  refrain. 
The  host  delivers  himself  of  an  epic  about  his 


IN   THE   TENEMENTS  45 

love  across  the  seas,  with  the  most  agonizing 
expression,  and  in  a  shockingly  bad  voice.  He 
is  the  worst  singer  I  ever  heard ;  but  his  com- 
panions greet  his  effort  with  approving  shouts 
of  "  Yi !  yi !  "  They  look  so  fierce,  and  yet  are 
so  childishly  happy,  that  at  the  thought  of 
their  exile  and  of  the  dark  tenement  the  ques- 
tion arises,  '^  Why  all  this  joy?"  The  guide 
answers  it  with  a  look  of  surprise.  ''They 
sing,"  he  says,  ''because  they  are  glad  they 
are  free.     Did  you  not  know  f " 

The  bells  in  old  Trinity  chime  the  midnight 
houi*.  From  dark  hallways  men  and  women 
pour  forth  and  hasten  to  the  Maronite  church. 
In  the  loft  of  the  dingy  old  warehouse  wax 
candles  burn  before  an  altar  of  brass.  The 
priest,  in  a  white  robe  with  a  huge  gold  cross 
worked  on  the  back,  chants  the  ritual.  The 
people  respond.  The  women  kneel  in  the 
aisles,  shrouding  their  heads  in  their  shawls ; 
the  surpliced  acolyte  swings  his  censer ;  the 
heavy  perfume  of  burning  incense  fills  the 
hall. 

The  band  at  the  anarchists'  ball  is  tuning  up 
for  the  last  dance.  Young  and  old  float  to  the 
happy  strains,  forgetting  injustice,  oppres- 
sion, hatred.  Children  slide  upon  the  waxed 
floor,  weaving  fearlessly  in  and  out  between 


46        CHRISTMAS  IN   THE   TENEMENTS 

the  couples— between  fierce,  bearded  men  and 
short-haired  women  with  crimson-bordered 
kerchiefs.  A  Punch-and-Judy  show  in  the 
corner  evokes  shouts  of  laughter. 

Outside  the  snow  is  falling.  It  sifts  silently 
into  each  nook  and  corner,  softens  all  the  hard 
and  ugly  lines,  and  throws  the  spotless  mantle 
of  charity  over  the  blemishes,  the  shortcom- 
ings. Christmas  morning  will  dawn  pure 
and  white. 


'T  WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS 

JOE  drove  his  old  gray  mare  along  the 
stony  road  in  deep  thought.  They  had 
been  across  the  ferry  to  Newtown  with  a  load 
of  Christmas  truck.  It  had  been  a  hard  puU 
uphill  for  them  both,  for  Joe  had  found  it 
necessary  not  a  few  times  to  get  down  and 
give  old  'Liza  a  lift  to  help  her  over  the  rough- 
est spots ;  and  now,  going  home,  with  the  twi- 
light coming  on  and  no  other  job  a-waiting, 
he  let  her  have  her  own  way.  It  was  slow, 
but  steady,  and  it  suited  Joe;  for  his  head 
was  f uU  of  busy  thoughts,  and  there  were  few 
enough  of  them  that  were  pleasant. 

Business  had  been  bad  at  the  big  stores, 
never  worse,  and  what  trucking  there  was 
there  were  too  many  about.  Storekeepers  who 
never  used  to  look  at  a  dollar,  so  long  as  they 
knew  they  could  trust  the  man  who  did  their 

47 


48  ^T   WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS 

hauling,  were  counting  the  nickels  these  days. 
As  for  chance  jobs  like  this  one,  that  was  all 
over  now  with  the  holidays,  and  there  had 
been  little  enough  of  it,  too. 

There  would  be  less,  a  good  deal,  with  the 
hard  winter  at  the  door,  and  with  'Liza  to  keep 
and  the  many  m  ouths  to  fill.  Still,  he  would  n't 
have  minded  it  so  much  but  for  mother  fret- 
ting and  worrying  herself  sick  at  home,  and 
all  along  o'  Jim,  the  eldest  boy,  who  had  gone 
away  mad  and  never  come  back.  Many  were 
the  dollars  he  had  paid  the  doctor  and  the 
druggist  to  fix  her  up,  but  it  was  no  use.  She 
was  worrying  herself  into  a  decline,  it  was 
clear  to  be  seen. 

Joe  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  as  he  thought  of 
the  strapping  lad  who  had  brought  such  sor- 
row to  his  mother.  So  strong  and  so  handy 
on  the  wagon.  Old  'Liza  loved  him  like  a 
brother  and  minded  him  even  better  than  she 
did  himself.  If  he  only  had  him  now,  they 
could  face  the  winter  and  the  bad  times,  and 
pull  through.  But  things  never  had  gone 
right  since  he  left.  He  did  n't  know,  Joe 
thought  humbly  as  he  jogged  along  over  the 
rough  road,  but  he  had  been  a  little  hard  on 
the  lad.  Boys  wanted  a  chance  once  in  a 
while.     All  work  and  no  play  was  not  for 


'T  WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS  49 

them.  Likely  he  had  forgotten  he  was  a  boy 
once  himself.  But  Jim  was  such  a  big  lad, 
'most  like  a  man.  He  took  after  his  mother 
more  than  the  rest.  She  had  been  proud,  too, 
when  she  was  a  girl.  He  wished  he  had  n't 
been  hasty  that  time  the}^  had  words  about 
those  boxes  at  the  store.  Anyway,  it  turned 
out  that  it  was  n't  Jim's  fault.  But  he  was 
gone  that  night,  and  try  as  they  might  to  find 
him,  they  never  had  word  of  him  since.  And 
Joe  sighed  again  more  heavily  than  before. 

Old  'Liza  shied  at  something  in  the  road, 
and  Joe  took  a  firmer  hold  on  the  reins.  It 
turned  his  thoughts  to  the  horse.  She  was 
getting  old,  too,  and  not  as  handy  as  she  was. 
He  noticed  that  she  was  getting  winded  with 
a  heavy  load.  It  was  well  on  to  ten  years  she 
had  been  their  capital  and  the  breadwinner  of 
the  house.  Sometimes  he  thought  that  she 
missed  Jim.  If  she  was  to  leave  them  now,  he 
would  n't  know  what  to  do,  for  he  could  n't 
raise  the  money  to  buy  another  horse  nohow, 
as  things  were.  Poor  old  'Liza  !  He  stroked 
her  gray  coat  musingly  with  the  point  of  his 
whip  as  he  thought  of  their  old  friendship. 
The  horse  pointed  one  ear  back  toward  her 
master  and  neighed  gently,  as  if  to  assure  him 
that  she  was  all  right. 

4 


50  'T   WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS 

Suddenly  she  stumbled.  Joe  pulled  her 
up  in  time,  and  throwing  the  reins  over  her 
back,  got  down  to  see  what  it  was.  An  old 
horseshoe,  and  in  the  dust  beside  it  a  new 
silver  quarter.  He  picked  both  up  and  put 
the  shoe  in  the  wagon. 

"  They  say  it  is  luck,"  he  mused,  ^'  finding 
horse-iron  and  money.  Maybe  it 's  my  Christ- 
mas. Get  up,  'Liza !  "  And  he  drove  off  to 
the  ferry. 

The  glare  of  a  thousand  gas-lamps  had 
chased  the  sunset  out  of  the  western  sky, 
when  Joe  drove  home  through  the  city's 
streets.  Between  their  straight  mile-long 
rows  surged  the  busy  life  of  the  coming 
holiday.  In  front  of  every  grocery-store  was 
a  grove  of  fragrant  Christmas  trees  waiting 
to  be  fitted  into  little  green  stands  with  fair}' 
fences.  Within,  customers  were  bargaining, 
chatting,  and  bantering  the  busy  clerks.  Ped- 
dlers offering  tinsel  and  colored  candles  way- 
laid them  on  the  door-step.  The  rack  under 
the  butcher's  awning  fairly  groaned  with  its 
weight  of  plucked  geese,  of  turkeys,  stout  and 
skinny,  of  poultry  of  every  kind.  The  saloon- 
keeper even  had  wreathed  his  door-posts  in 
ground-ivy  and  hemlock,  and  hung  a  sprig 


'T  WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS  51 

of  holly  in  the  window,  as  if  with  a  spurious 
promise  of  peace  on  earth  and  good-will 
toward  men  who  entered  there.  It  tempted 
not  Joe.  He  drove  past  it  to  the  corner,  where 
he  turned  up  a  street  darker  and  lonelier  than 
the  rest,  toward  a  stretch  of  rock}^,  vacant  lots 
fenced  in  by  an  old  stone  wall.  'Liza  turned 
in  at  the  rude  gate  without  being  told,  and 
pulled  up  at  the  house. 

A  plain  little  one-story  frame  with  a  lean-to 
for  a  kitchen,  and  an  adjoining  stable-shed, 
over-shadowed  all  by  two  great  chestnuts  of 
the  days  when  there  were  country  lanes  where 
now  are  paved  streets,  and  on  Manhattan 
Island  there  was  farm  by  farm.  A  light 
gleamed  in  the  window  looking  toward  the 
street.  As  'Liza's  hoofs  were  heard  on  the 
drive,  a  young  girl  with  a  shawl  over  her  head 
ran  out  from  some  shelter  where  she  had  been 
watching,  and  took  the  reins  from  Joe. 

''  You're  late,"  she  said,  stroking  the  mare's 
steaming  flank.  'Liza  reached  around  and 
rubbed  her  head  against  the  girl's  shoulder, 
nibbling  playfully  at  the  fringe  of  her  shawl. 

"Yes;  we  've  come  far,  and  it's  been  a 
hard  pull.  'Liza  is  tired.  Give  her  a  good 
feed,  and  I  '11  bed  her  down.  How 's  mother  ? " 

'^Sprier  than  she  was,"  replied  the  girl, 


52  'T  WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS 

bending  over  the  shaft  to  unbuckle  the  horse ; 
"seems  as  if  she  'd  kinder  cheered  up  for 
Christmas."  And  she  led  'Liza  to  the  stable 
while  her  father  backed  the  wagon  into  the 
shed. 

It  was  warm  and  very  comfortable  in  the 
little  kitchen,  where  he  joined  the  family 
after  "  washing  up."  The  fire  burned  brightly 
in  the  range,  on  which  a  good-sized  roast 
sizzled  cheerily  in  its  pot,  sending  up  clouds 
of  savory  steam.  The  sand  on  the  white  pine 
floor  was  swept  in  tongues,  old-country  fash- 
ion. Joe  and  his  wife  were  both  born  across 
the  sea,  and  liked  to  keep  Christmas  eve  as 
they  had  kept  it  when  they  were  children. 
Two  little  boys  and  a  younger  girl  than  the 
one  who  had  met  him  at  the  gate  received  him 
with  shouts  of  glee,  and  pulled  him  straight 
from  the  door  to  look  at  a  hemlock  branch 
stuck  in  the  tub  of  sand  in  the  corner.  It 
was  their  Christmas  tree,  and  they  were  to 
light  it  with  candles,  red  and  yeUow  and 
green,  which  mama  got  them  at  the  grocer's 
where  the  big  Santa  Claus  stood  on  the  shelf. 
They  pranced  about  like  so  many  little  colts, 
and  clung  to  Joe  by  turns,  shouting  all  at 
once,  each  one  anxious  to  tell  the  great  news 
first  and  loudest. 


'T   WAS  LIZA'S   DOINGS  53 

Joe  took  them  on  liis  knee,  all  three,  and 
when  they  had  shouted  until  they  had  to  stop 
for  breath,  he  pulled  from  under  his  coat  a 
paper  bundle,  at  which  the  children's  eyes 
bulged.     He  undid  the  wrapping  slowly. 

''Who  do  you  think  has  come  home  with 
me  ? "  he  said,  and  he  held  up  before  them  the 
veritable  Santa  Claus  himself,  done  in  plaster 
and  all  snow-covered.  He  had  bought  it  at 
the  corner  toy-store  with  his  lucky  quarter. 
''  I  met  him  on  the  road  over  on  Long  Island, 
where  'Liza  and  I  was  to-day,  and  I  gave  him 
a  ride  to  town.  They  say  it  's  luck  falling 
in  with  Santa  Claus,  partickler  when  there  's 
a  horseshoe  along.  I  put  hisn  up  in  the  barn, 
in  'Liza's  stall.  Maybe  our  luck  will  turn 
yet,  eh  !  old  woman  ? "  And  he  put  his  arm 
around  his  wife,  who  was  setting  out  the 
dinner  with  Jennie,  and  gave  her  a  good 
hug,  while  the  children  danced  off  with  their 
Santa  Claus. 

She  was  a  comely  little  woman,  and  she 
tried  hard  to  be  cheerful.  She  gave  him  a 
brave  look  and  a  smile,  but  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes,  and  Joe  saw  them,  though  he  let 
on  that  he  did  n't.  He  patted  her  tenderly 
on  the  back  and  smoothed  his  Jennie's  yellow 
braids,  while  he  swallowed  the  lump  in  his 


54  'T  WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS 

throat  and  got  it  down  and  out  of  the  way. 
He  needed  no  doctor  to  tell  him  that  Santa 
Claus  would  not  come  again  and  find  her  cook- 
ing their  Christmas  dinner,  unless  she  mended 
soon  and  swiftly. 

They  ate  their  dinner  together,  and  sat  and 
talked  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed.  Joe 
went  out  to  make  all  snug  about  'Liza  for  the 
night  and  to  give  her  an  extra  feed.  He 
stopped  in  the  door,  coming  back,  to  shake 
the  snow  out  of  his  clothes.  It  was  coming 
on  with  bad  weather  and  a  northerly  storm, 
he  reported.  The  snow  was  falling  thick 
already  and  drifting  badly.  He  saw  to  the 
kitchen  fire  and  put  the  children  to  bed. 
Long  before  the  clock  in  the  neighboring 
church-tower  struck  twelve,  and  its  doors 
were  opened  for  the  throngs  come  to  worship 
at  the  midnight  mass,  the  lights  in  the  cottage 
were  out,  and  all  within  it  fast  asleep. 

The  murmur  of  the  homeward-hurrjdng 
crowds  had  died  out,  and  the  last  echoing 
shout  of  ''Merry  Christmas!"  had  been 
whirled  away  on  the  storm,  now  grown  fierce 
with  bitter  cold,  when  a  lonely  wanderer  came 
down  the  street.  It  was  a  boy,  big  and  strong- 
limbed,  and,  judging   from   the  manner  in 


'T  WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS  55 

which  he  pushed  his  way  through  the  gather- 
ing drifts,  not  unused  to  battle  with  the  world, 
but  evidently  in  hard  luck.  His  jacket,  white 
with  the  falling  snow,  was  scant  and  worn 
nearly  to  rags,  and  there  was  that  in  his  face 
which  spoke  of  hunger  and  suffering  silently 
endured.  He  stopped  at  the  gate  in  the  stone 
fence,  and  looked  long  and  steadily  at  the  cot- 
tage in  the  chestnuts.  No  life  stirred  within, 
and  he  walked  through  the  gap  with  slow  and 
hesitating  step.  Under  the  kitchen  window 
he  stood  awhile,  sheltered  from  the  storm,  as 
if  undecided,  then  stepped  to  the  horse-shed 
and  rapped  gently  on  the  door. 

''  'Liza ! ''  he  caUed,  "  'Liza,  old  girl !  It  's 
me— Jim ! " 

A  low,  delighted  whinnying  from  the  stall 
told  the  shivering  boy  that  he  was  not  forgot- 
ten there.  The  faithful  beast  was  straining  at 
her  halter  in  a  vain  effort  to  get  at  her  friend. 
Jim  raised  a  bar  that  held  the  door  closed  by 
the  aid  of  a  lever  within,  of  which  he  knew 
the  trick,  and  went  in.  The  horse  made  room 
for  him  in  her  stall,  and  laid  her  shaggy  head 
against  his  cheek. 

'^  Poor  old  'Liza !  "  he  said,  patting  her  neck 
and  smoothing  her  gray  coat,  '^  poor  old  girl ! 
Jim  has  one  friend  that  has  n't  gone  back  on 


56  'T  WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS 

him.  I  've  come  to  keep  Christmas  with  you, 
'Liza!  Hadyour  supper,  eh?  You 're  in  luck. 
I  have  n't;  I  was  n't  bid,  'Lizaj  but  never 
mind.  You  shall  feed  for  both  of  us.  Here 
goes ! "  He  dug  into  the  oats-bin  with  the 
measure,  and  poured  it  full  into  'Liza's  crib. 

"  Fill  up,  old  girl !  and  good  night  to  you." 
With  a  departing  pat  he  crept  up  the  ladder 
to  the  loft  above,  and,  scooping  out  a  berth 
in  the  loose  hay,  snuggled  down  in  it  to  sleep. 
Soon  his  regular  breathing  up  there  kept  step 
with  the  steady  munching  of  the  horse  in  her 
stall.  The  two  reunited  friends  were  dream- 
ing happy  Christmas  dreams. 

The  night  wore  into  the  small  hours  of 
Christmas  morning.  The  fury  of  the  storm 
was  unabated.  The  old  cottage  shook  under 
the  fierce  blasts,  and  the  chestnuts  waved  their 
hoary  branches  wildly,  beseechingly,  above  it, 
as  if  they  wanted  to  warn  those  within  of 
some  threatened  danger.  But  they  slept  and 
heard  them  not.  From  the  kitchen  chimney, 
after  a  blast  more  violent  than  any  that  had 
gone  before,  a  red  spark  issued,  was  whirled 
upward  and  beaten  against  the  shingle  roof 
of  the  barn,  swept  clean  of  snow.  Another 
followed  it,  and  another.  Still  they  slept  in 
the  cottage  3  the  chestnuts  moaned  and  bran- 


'T  WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS  57 

dished  their  arms  in  vain.  The  storm  fanned 
one  of  the  sparks  into  a  flame.  It  flickered 
for  a  moment  and  then  went  out.  So,  at 
least,  it  seemed.  But  presently  it  reappeared, 
and  with  it  a  faint  glow  was  reflected  in  the 
attic  window  over  the  door.  Down  in  her 
stall  'Liza  moved  uneasily.  Nobody  respond- 
ing, she  plunged  and  reared,  neighing  loudly 
for  help.  The  storm  drowned  her  calls ;  her 
master  slept,  unheeding. 

But  one  heard  it,  and  in  the  nick  of  time. 
The  door  of  the  shed  was  thrown  violently 
open,  and  out  plunged  Jim,  his  hair  on  fire 
and  his  clothes  singed  and  smoking.  He 
brushed  the  sparks  off  himself  as  if  they  were 
flakes  of  snow.  Quick  as  thought,  he  tore 
'Liza's  halter  from  its  fastening,  pulling  out 
staple  and  all,  threw  his  smoking  coat  over 
her  eyes,  and  backed  her  out  of  the  shed 
He  reached  in,  and  pulling  the  harness  off  the 
hook,  threw  it  as  far  into  the  snow  as  he  could, 
yelling  ^'  Fire  !'^  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Then 
he  jumped  on  the  back  of  the  horse,  and  beat- 
ing her  with  heels  and  hands  into  a  mad  gal- 
lop, was  off  up  the  street  before  the  bewildered 
inmates  of  the  cottage  had  rubbed  the  sleep 
out  of  their  eyes  and  come  out  to  see  the  barn 
on  fire  and  burning  up. 


58  'T  WAS  LIZA'S  DOINGS 

Down  street  and  avenue  fire-engines  raced 
with  clanging  bells,  leaving  tracks  of  glowing 
coals  in  the  snow-drifts,  to  the  cottage  in  the 
chestnut  lots.  They  got  there  just  in  time  to 
see  the  roof  crash  into  the  barn,  burjdng,  as 
Joe  and  his  crying  wife  and  children  thought, 
'Liza  and  their  last  hope  in  the  fiery  wreck. 
The  door  had  blown  shut,  and  the  harness  Jim 
threw  out  was  snowed  under.  No  one  dreamed 
that  the  mare  was  not  there.  The  flames  burst 
through  the  wreck  and  lit  up  the  cottage  and 
swaying  chestnuts.  Joe  and  his  family  stood 
in  the  shelter  of  it,  looking  sadly  on.  For  the 
second  time  that  Christmas  night  tears  came 
into  the  honest  truckman's  eyes.  He  wiped 
them  away  with  his  cap. 

'^  Poor  'Liza !  "  he  said. 

A  hand  was  laid  with  gentle  touch  upon  his 
arm.  He  looked  up.  It  was  his  wife.  Her 
face  beamed  with  a  great  happiness. 

''Joe,"  she  said,  ''you  remember  what  you 
read:  'tidings  of  great  joy.'  Oh,  Joe,  Jim 
has  come  home !  " 

She  stepped  aside,  and  there  was  Jim,  sister 
Jennie  hanging  on  his  neck,  and  'Liza  alive 
and  neighing  her  pleasure.  The  lad  looked 
at  his  father  and  hung  his  head. 

"Jim  saved  her,  father,"  said  Jennie,  pat- 


'T   WAS   LIZA'S   DOINGS  59 

ting  the  gray  mare  j  "  it  was  him  fetched  the 
engine." 

Joe  took  a  step  toward  his  son  and  held  out 
his  hand  to  him. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  "yon  're  a  better  man  nor 
yer  father.  From  now  on,  you'n'-I  run  the 
truck  on  shares.  But  mind  this,  Jim :  never 
leave  mother  no  more." 

And  in  the  clasp  of  the  two  hands  all  the 
past  was  forgotten  and  forgiven.  Father  and 
son  had  found  each  other  again. 

"'Liza,"  said  the  truckman,  with  sudden 
vehemence,  turning  to  the  old  mare  and  put- 
ting his  arm  around  her  neck,  "  'Liza !  It  was 
your  doin's.  I  knew  it  was  luck  when  I  found 
them  things.  Merry  Christmas  !  "  And  he 
kissed  her  smack  on  her  hairy  mouth,  one, 
two,  three  times. 


THE  DUBOURQUES,  FATHER 
AND  SON 


IT  must  be  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century 
since  I  first  met  the  Dubourques.  There 
are  plenty  of  old  New-Yorkers  yet  who  will 
recall  them  as  I  saw  them,  plodding  along 
Chatham  street,  swarthy,  silent,  meanly 
dressed,  undersized,  with  their  great  tin  signs 
covering  front  and  back,  like  ill-favored 
gnomes  turned  sandwich-men  to  vent  their 
spite  against  a  gay  world.  Sunshine  or  rain, 
they  went  their  way,  Indian  file,  never  apart, 
bearing  their  everlasting,  unavailing  protest. 

"I  demand,"  read  the  painted  signs,  '^the 
will  and  testament  of  my  brother,  who  died 
in  California,  leaving  a  large  property  in- 
heritance to  Virgile  Dubourque,  which  has 
never  reached  him." 

That  was  all  any  one  was  ever  able  to  make 
60 


THE  DUBOURQUES,  FATHER  AND  SON    61 

out.  At  that  point  the  story  became  rambling 
and  unintelligible.  Denunciation,  hot  and 
wrathful,  of  the  thieves,  whoever  they  were, 
of  the  government,  of  bishops,  priests,  and 
lawyers,  alternated  with  protestations  of  in- 
nocence of  heaven  knows  what  crimes.  If  any 
one  stopped  them  to  ask  what  it  was  all 
about,  they  stared,  shook  their  heads,  and 
passed  on.  If  money  was  offered,  they  took  it 
without  thanking  the  giver ;  indeed,  without 
noticing  him.  They  were  never  seen  apart, 
yet  never  together  in  the  sense  of  being  ap- 
parently anything  to  each  other.  I  doubt  if 
they  ever  spoke,  unless  they  were  obliged  to. 
Grim  and  lonely,  they  traveled  the  streets, 
parading  their  gi-ievance  before  an  unheed- 
ing day. 

What  that  grievance  was,  and  what  was 
their  story,  a  whole  generation  had  tried 
vainly  to  find  out.  Every  young  reporter 
tried  his  hand  at  it  at  least  once,  some  many 
times,  I  among  them.  None  of  us  ever  found 
out  anything  tangible  about  them.  Now  and 
then  we  ran  down  a  rumor  in  the  region  of 
Bleecker  street,  then  the  "French  quarter," 
—I  should  have  said  that  they  were  French 
and  spoke  but  a  few  words  of  broken  English 
when  they  spoke  at  all,— only  to  have  it  come 


62    THE  DUBOURQUES,  FATHER  AND  SON 

to  nothing.  One  which  I  recall  was  to  the 
effect  that,  at  some  time  in  the  far  past,  the 
elder  of  the  two  had  been  a  schoolmaster  in 
Lorraine,  and  had  come  across  the  sea  in 
quest  of  a  fabulous  fortune  left  by  his  bro- 
ther, one  of  the  gold-diggers  of  ^49,  who  died 
in  his  boots;  that  there  had  been  some  disa- 
greement between  father  and  son,  which  re- 
sulted in  the  latter  running  away  with  their 
saved-up  capital,  leaving  the  old  man  stranded 
in  a  strange  city,  among  people  of  strange 
speech,  without  the  means  of  asserting  his 
claim,  and  that,  when  he  realized  this,  he  lost 
his  reason.  Thus  his  son,  Erneste,  found  him, 
returning  after  years  penniless  and  repentant. 
From  that  meeting  father  and  son  came 
forth  what  they  were  ever  since.  So  ran  the 
story,  but  whether  it  was  all  fancy,  or  some 
or  most  of  it,  I  could  not  tell.  No  one  could. 
One  by  one,  the  reporters  dropped  them, 
unable  to  make  them  out.  The  officers  of  a 
French  benevolent  society,  where  twice  a 
week  they  received  fixed  rations,  gave  up  im- 
portuning them  to  accept  the  shelter  of  the 
house  before  their  persistent,  almost  fierce, 
refusal.  The  police  did  not  trouble  them, 
except  when  people  complained  that  the  tin 
signs  tore  their  clothes.     After  that  they 


THE  DUBOURQUES,  FATHER  AND  SON    63 

walked  with  canvas  posters,  and  were  let 
alone. 

One  morning  in  the  winter  of  1882,  among 
the  police  reports  of  the  night's  happenings 
that  were  laid  upon  my  desk,  I  found  one 
saying  that  Virgile  Dubourque,  Frenchman, 
seventy-five  years  old,  had  died  in  a  Wooster- 
street  lodging-house.  The  story  of  his  death, 
as  I  learned  it  there  that  dav,  was  as  traoric 
as  that  of  his  life.  He  had  grown  more  and 
more  feeble,  until  at  last  he  was  unable  to 
leave  the  house.  For  the  first  time  the  son 
went  out  alone.  The  old  man  sat  by  the 
stove  all  day,  silently  brooding  over  his 
wrongs.  The  lodgers  came  and  went.  He 
heeded  neither  their  going  nor  their  coming. 
Through  the  long  night  he  kept  his  seat, 
gazing  fixedly  into  the  fire.  In  the  morning, 
when  daylight  shone  upon  the  cold,  gray 
ashes,  he  sat  there  dead.  The  son  slept 
peacefully  beside  him. 

The  old  schoolmaster  took  his  last  trip 
alone ;  no  mourners  rode  behind  the  hearse 
to  the  Palisade  Cemetery,  where  charitable 
countrymen  bought  him  a  grave.  Erneste 
did  not  go  to  the  funeral.  That  afternoon  I 
met  him  on  Broadway,  plodding  alone  over 
the  old  route.     His  eyes  were  red  and  swollen. 


64    THE  DUBOURQUES,  FATHER  AND  SON 

The  "  protest "  hung  from  his  shoulders ;  in 
liis  hand  he  carried^  done  up  roughly  in  a 
pack,  the  signs  the  old  man  had  borne.  A 
look  of  such  utter  loneliness  as  I  had  never 
seen  on  a  human  face  came  into  his  when  I 
asked  him  where  his  father  was.  He  made 
a  gesture  of  dejection  and  shifted  his  feet 
uneasily,  as  if  impatient  at  being  detained. 
Something  distracted  my  attention  for  the 
moment,  and  when  I  looked  again  he  was 
gone. 

Once  in  the  following  summer  I  heard 
from  Erneste  through  the  newspapers,  just 
when  I  had  begun  to  miss  him  from  his  old 
haunts.  It  seems  that  he  had  somehow  found 
the  papers  that  proved  his  claim,  or  thought 
he  had.  He  had  put  them  into  the  hands 
of  the  French  consul  the  day  before,  said  the 
item,  appearing  before  him  clothed  and  in  his 
right  mind,  without  the  signs.  But  the  ac- 
count merely  added  to  the  mystery  by  hinting 
that  the  old  man  had  unconsciously  hoarded 
the  papers  all  the  years  he  sought  them  with 
such  toil  in  the  streets  of  New  York.  Here 
was  my  story  at  last ;  but  before  I  could  lay 
hold  of  it,  it  evaded  me  once  more  in  the 
hurry  and  worry  of  the  police  office. 

Autumn  had  come  and  nearly  gone,  when 


THE  DUBOURQUES,  FATHER  AND  SON     65 

New  York  was  one  day  startled  by  the  report 
that  a  madman  had  run  through  Fourteenth 
street  at  an  hour  in  the  afternoon  when  it 
was  most  crowded  with  shoppers,  and,  with 
a  pair  of  carpenter's  compasses,  had  cut 
right  and  left,  stabbing  as  many  as  came  in 
his  way.  A  scene  of  the  wildest  panic  en- 
sued. Women  flung  themselves  down  base- 
ment-steps and  fell  fainting  in  doorways. 
Fully  half  a  score  were  cut  down,  among 
them  the  wife  of  Policeman  Hanley,  who  was 
on  duty  in  the  block,  and  who  arrested  the 
maniac  without  knowing  that  his  wife  lay 
mortally  wounded  among  his  victims.  She 
had  come  out  to  meet  him,  with  the  children. 
It  was  only  after  he  had  attended  to  the  rest 
and  sent  the  prisoner  away  securely  bound 
that  he  was  told  there  was  still  a  wounded 
woman  in  the  next  store,  and  found  her  there 
with  her  little  ones. 

The  madman  was  Erneste  Dubourque.  I 
found  him  in  the  police  station,  surrounded 
"by  a  crowd  of  excited  officials,  to  whose  in- 
quiries he  turned  a  mien  of  dull  and  stolid 
indifference.  He  knew  me  when  I  called  him 
by  name,  and  looked  up  with  a  movement  of 
quick  intelligence,  as  one  who  suddenly  re- 
members something  he  had  forgotten  and 


66     THE  DUBOURQUES,  FATHER  AND  SON 

vainly  tried  to  recall.  He  started  for  the 
door.  When  they  seized  him  and  brought 
him  back,  he  fought  like  a  demon.  His 
shrieks  of  "  Thieves !  robbers ! "  filled  the 
building  as  they  bore  him  struggling  to  a 
cell. 

He  was  tried  by  a  jury  and  acquitted  of 
murder.  The  defense  was  insanity.  The 
court  ordered  his  incarceration  in  a  safe  asy- 
lum. The  police  had  received  a  severe  lesson, 
and  during  the  next  month,  while  it  was  yet 
fresh  in  the  public  mind,  they  bestirred  them- 
selves, and  sent  a  number  of  ''harmless" 
lunatics,  who  had  gone  about  unmolested, 
after  him.  I  never  heard  of  Erneste  Du- 
bourque  again ;  but  even  now,  after  fifteen 
years,  I  find  myself  sometimes  asking  the 
old  question :  What  was  the  story  of  WTong 
that  bore  such  a  crop  of  sorrow  and  dark- 
ness and  murder  1 


ABE'S  GAME  OF  JACKS 

TIME  hung  heavily  on  Abe  Seelig's  hands, 
alone,  or  as  good  as  alone,  in  the  flat  on 
the  "stoop"  of  the  Allen-street  tenement. 
His  mother  had  gone  to  the  butcher's.  Cha- 
jim,  the  father,—"  Chajim  "  is  the  Yiddish  of 
"Herman,"— was  long  at  the  shop.  To  Abe 
was  committed  the  care  of  his  two  young 
brothers,  Isaac  and  Jacob.  Abraham  was 
nine,  and  past  time  for  fooling.  Plaj^  is  "  fool- 
ing "  in  the  sweaters'  tenements,  and  the  mud- 
dling of  ideas  makes  trouble,  later  on,  to 
which  the  police  returns  have  the  index. 

"  Don't  let  'em  on  the  stairs,"  the  mother 
had  said,  on  going,  with  a  warning  nod  toward 
the  bed  where  Jake  and  Ikey  slept.  He  did  n't 
intend  to.  Besides,  they  were  fast  asleep. 
Abe  cast  about  him  for  fun  of  some  kind, 
and  bethought  himself  of  a  game  of  jacks. 

67 


68  ABE'S  GAME  OF  JACKS 

That  lie  had  no  jackstones  was  of  small  mo- 
ment to  him.  East-Side  tenements,  where 
pennies  are  infrequent,  have  resources.  One 
penny  was  Abe's  hoard.  With  that,  and  an 
accidental  match,  he  began  the  game. 

It  went  on  well  enough,  albeit  slightly  lop- 
sided by  reason  of  the  penny  being  so  much 
the  weightier,  until  the  match,  in  one  unlucky 
throw,  fell  close  to  a  chair  by  the  bed,  and, 
in  falling,  caught  fire. 

Something  hung  down  from  the  chair,  and 
while  Abe  gazed,  open-mouthed,  at  the  match, 
at  the  chair,  and  at  the  bed  right  alongside, 
with  his  sleeping  brothers  on  it,  the  little 
blaze  caught  it.  The  flame  climbed  up,  up, 
up,  and  a  great  smoke  curled  under  the  ceil- 
ing. The  children  still  slept,  locked  in  each 
other's  arms,  and  Abe— Abe  ran. 

He  ran,  frightened  half  out  of  his  senses, 
out  of  the  room,  out  of  the  house,  into  the 
street,  to  the  nearest  friendly  place  he  knew, 
a  grocery-store  five  doors  away,  where  his 
mother  traded ;  but  she  was  not  there.  Abe 
merely  saw  that  she  was  not  there,  then  he 
hid  himseK  trembling. 

In  all  the  block,  where  three  thousand  ten- 
ants live,  no  one  knew  what  cruel  thing  was 
happening  on  the  stoop  of  No.  19. 


ABE'S  GAME   OF  JACKS  69 

A  train  passed  on  tlie  elevated  road,  slow- 
ing up  for  the  station  near  by.  The  engineer 
saw  one  wild  whirl  of  fire  within  the  room, 
and  opening  the  throttle  of  his  whistle  wide, 
let  out  a  screech  so  long  and  so  loud  that  in 
ten  seconds  the  street  was  black  with  men  and 
women  rushing  out  to  see  what  dreadful  thing 
had  happened. 

No  need  of  asking.  From  the  door  of 
the  Seelig  flat,  burned  through,  fierce  flames 
reached  across  the  hall,  barring  the  way.  The 
tenement  was  shut  in. 

Promptly  it  poured  itself  forth  upon  fii-e- 
escape  ladders,  front  and  rear,  with  shrieks 
and  wailing.  In  the  street  the  crowd  became 
a  deadly  crush.  Police  and  firemen  battered 
their  way  through,  ran  down  and  over  men, 
women,  and  children,  with  a  desperate  effort. 

The  firemen  from  Hook  and  Ladder  Six, 
around  the  corner,  had  heard  the  shrieks,  and, 
knowing  what  they  portended,  ran  with  haste. 
But  they  were  too  late  with  their  extinguish- 
ers ;  could  not  even  approach  the  burning  flat. 
They  could  only  throw  up  their  ladders  to 
those  above.  For  the  rest  they  must  needs 
wait  until  the  engines  came. 

One  tore  up  the  street,  coupled  on  a  hose, 
and  ran  it  into  the  house.    Then  died  out  the 


70  ABE'S  GAME   OF  JACKS 

fire  in  the  flat  as  speedily  as  it  had  come. 
The  burning  room  was  pumped  full  of  water, 
and  the  firemen  entered. 

Just  within  the  room  they  came  upon  little 
Jacob,  still  alive,  but  half  roasted.  He  had 
struggled  from  the  bed  nearly  to  the  door. 
On  the  bed  lay  the  body  of  Isaac,  the  young- 
est, burned  to  a  crisp. 

They  carried  Jacob  to  the  police  station.  As 
they  brought  him  out,  a  frantic  woman  burst 
through  the  throng  and  threw  herself  upon 
him.  It  was  the  children's  mother  come  back. 
When  they  took  her  to  the  blackened  corpse 
of  little  Ike,  she  went  stark  mad.  A  dozen 
neighbors  held  her  down,  shrieking,  while 
others  went  in  search  of  the  father. 

In  the  street  the  excitement  grew  until  it 
became  almost  uncontrollable  when  the  dead 
boy  was  carried  out. 

In  the  midst  of  it  little  Abe  returned,  pale, 
silent,  and  frightened,  to  stand  by  his  raving 
mother. 


A  LITTLE   PICTURE 

THE  fire-bells  rang  on  the  Bowery  in  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning.  One  of 
the  old  dwelling-houses  that  remain  from  the 
day  when  the  "Bouwerie"  was  yet  remem- 
bered as  an  avenue  of  beer-gardens  and  plea- 
sure resorts  was  burning.  Down  in  the  street 
stormed  the  firemen,  coupling  hose  and  drag- 
ging it  to  the  front.  Up-stairs  in  the  peak  of 
the  roof,  in  the  broken  skylight,  hung  a  man, 
old,  feeble,  and  gasping  for  breath,  struggling 
vainly  to  get  out.  He  had  piled  chairs  upon 
tables,  and  climbed  up  where  he  could  grasp 
the  edge,  but  his  strength  had  given  out  when 
one  more  effort  would  have  freed  him.  He 
felt  himself  sinking  back.  Over  him  was  the 
sky,  reddened  now  by  the  fii'e  that  raged  below. 
Through  the  hole  the  pent-up  smoke  in  the 

71 


72  A  LITTLE  PICTURE 

building  found  vent  and  rushed  in  a  black  and 
stifling  cloud. 

"  Air,  air !  "  gasped  the  old  man.  "  0  God, 
water ! " 

There  was  a  swishing  sound,  a  splash,  and 
the  copious  spray  of  a  stream  sent  over  the 
house  from  the  street  fell  upon  his  upturned 
face.  It  beat  back  the  smoke.  Strength  and 
hope  returned.  He  took  another  grip  on  the 
rafter  just  as  he  would  have  let  go. 

"  Oh,  that  I  might  be  reached  yet  and  saved 
from  this  awful  death !  "  he  prayed.  "  Help, 
O  God,  help !  " 

An  answering  cry  came  over  the  adjoining 
roof.  He  had  been  heard,  and  the  firemen, 
who  did  not  dream  that  any  one  was  in  the 
burning  building,  had  him  in  a  minute.  He 
had  been  asleep  in  the  store  when  the  fire 
aroused  him  and  drove  him,  blinded  and  be- 
wildered, to  the  attic,  where  he  was  trapped. 

Safe  in  the  street,  the  old  man  fell  upon  his 
knees. 

"  I  prayed  for  water,  and  it  came ;  I  prayed 
for  freedom,  and  was  saved.  The  God  of  my 
fathers  be  praised ! "  he  said,  and  bowed  his 
head  in  thanksgiving. 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  WOODS 

SOMETHING  came  over  Police  Headquar- 
ters in  the  middle  of  the  summer  night. 
It  was  like  the  sighing  of  the  north  wind  in 
the  branches  of  the  taU  firs  and  in  the  reeds 
along  lonely  river-banks  where  the  otter  dips 
from  the  brink  for  its  prey.  The  doorman, 
who  yawned  in  the  hall,  and  to  whom  reed- 
grown  river-banks  have  been  strangers  so 
long  that  he  has  forgotten  they  ever  were, 
shivered  and  thought  of  pneumonia. 

The  sergeant  behind  the  desk  shouted  for 
some  one  to  close  the  door ;  it  was  getting  as 
cold  as  January.  The  little  messenger  boy 
on  the  lowest  step  of  the  oaken  stairs  nodded 
and  dreamed  in  his  sleep  of  Uncas  and  Chin- 
gachgook  and  the  great  woods.  The  cunning 
old  beaver  was  there  in  his  hut,  and  he  heard 
the  crack  of  Deerslayer's  rifle. 

73 


74  A  DREAM   OF  THE  WOODS 

He  knew  all  the  time  he  was  dreaming,  sit- 
ting on  the  steps  of  Police  Headquarters,  and 
yet  it  was  all  as  real  to  him  as  if  he  were  there, 
with  the  Mingoes  creeping  up  to  him  in  am- 
bush all  about  and  reaching  for  his  scalp. 

While  he  slept,  a  hght  step  had  passed,  and 
the  moccasin  of  the  woods  left  its  trail  in  his 
dream.  In  with  the  gust  through  the  Mul- 
berry-street door  had  come  a  strange  pair,  an 
old  woman  and  a  bright-eyed  child,  led  by  a 
policeman,  and  had  passed  up  to  Matron  Trav- 
ers's  quarters  on  the  top  floor. 

Strangely  different,  they  were  yet  alike, 
both  children  of  the  woods.  The  woman  was 
a  squaw  typical  in  looks  and  bearing,  with 
the  straight  black  hair,  dark  skin,  and  stolid 
look  of  her  race.  She  climbed  the  steps  wea- 
rily, holding  the  child  by  the  hand.  The  little 
one  skipped  eagerly,  two  steps  at  a  time. 
There  was  the  faintest  tinge  of  brown  in  her 
plump  cheeks,  and  a  roguish  smile  in  the  cor- 
ner of  her  eyes  that  made  it  a  hardship  not  to 
take  her  up  in  one's  lap  and  hug  her  at  sight. 
In  her  frock  of  red-and- white  calico  she  was 
a  fresh  and  charming  picture,  with  all  the 
grace  of  movement  and  the  sweet  shyness  of 
a  young  fawn. 

The  policeman  had  found  them  sitting  on  a 


A  DREAM   OF   THE  WOODS  75 

big  trunk  in  the  Grand  Central  Station,  wait- 
ing patiently  for  something  or  somebody  that 
did  n't  come.  When  he  had  let  them  sit  until 
he  thought  the  child  ought  to  be  in  bed,  he 
took  them  into  the  police  station  in  the  depot, 
and  there  an  effort  was  made  to  find  out  who 
and  what  they  were.  It  was  not  an  easy  mat- 
ter. Neither  could  speak  English.  They  knew 
a  few  words  of  French,  however,  and  between 
that  and  a  note  the  old  woman  had  in  her 
pocket  the  general  outline  of  the  trouble  was 
gathered .  They  were  of  the  Canaghwaga  tribe 
of  Iroquois,  domiciled  in  the  St.  Regis  reser- 
vation across  the  Canadian  border,  and  had 
come  down  to  sell  a  trunkful  of  beads,  and 
things  worked  with  beads.  Some  one  was  to 
meet  them,  but  had  failed  to  come,  and  these 
two,  to  whom  the  trackless  wilderness  was 
as  an  open  book,  were  lost  in  the  city  of  ten 
thousand  homes. 

The  matron  made  them  understand  by  signs 
that  two  of  the  nine  white  beds  in  the  nurs- 
ery were  for  them,  and  they  turned  right  in, 
humbly  and  silently  thankful.  The  little  girl 
had  carried  up  with  her,  hugged  very  close 
under  her  arm,  a  doll  that  was  a  real  ethno- 
logical study.  It  was  a  faithful  rendering  of 
the  Indian  papoose,  whittled  out  of  a  chunk 


76  A  DREAM  OF   THE   WOODS 

of  wood,  witli  two  staring  glass  beads  for  eyes, 
and  strapped  to  a  board  the  way  Indian  babies 
are,  under  a  coverlet  of  very  gaudy  blue.  It 
was  a  marvelous  doll  baby,  and  its  nurse  was 
mighty  proud  of  it.  She  did  n't  let  it  go  when 
she  went  to  bed.  It  slept  with  her,  and  got 
up  to  play  with  her  as  soon  as  the  first  ray  of 
daylight  peeped  in  over  the  tall  roofs. 

The  morning  brought  visitors,  who  admired 
the  doll,  chirruped  to  the  little  girl,  and  tried 
to  talk  with  her  grandmother,  for  that  they 
made  her  out  to  be.  To  most  questions  she 
simply  answered  by  shaking  her  head  and 
holding  out  her  credentials.  There  were  two 
letters ;  one  to  the  conductor  of  the  train  from 
Montreal,  asking  him  to  see  that  they  got 
through  all  right ;  the  other,  a  memorandum, 
for  her  own  benefit  apparently,  recounting 
the  number  of  hearts,  crosses,  and  other  trea- 
sures she  had  in  her  trunk.  It  was  from  those 
she  had  left  behind  at  the  reservation. 

'^  Little  Angus,"  it  ran, ''  sends  what  is  over 
to  sell  for  him.  Sarah  sends  the  hearts.  As 
soon  as  you  can,  will  you  try  and  sell  some 
hearts?"  Then  there  was  ''love  to  mother," 
and  lastly  an  account  of  what  the  mason  had 
said  about  the  chimney  of  the  cabin.  They 
had  sent  for  him  to  fix  it.     It  was  very  dan- 


A  DREAM   OF  THE   WOODS  77 

gerous  the  way  it  was,  ran  the  message,  and 
if  mother  would  get  the  bricks,  he  would  fix 
it  right  away. 

The  old  squaw  looked  on  with  an  anxious 
expression  wliile  the  note  was  "being  read,  as 
if  she  expected  some  sense  to  come  out  of  it 
that  would  find  her  folks ;  but  none  of  that 
kind  could  be  made  out  of  it,  so  they  sat  and 
waited  until  General  Parker  should  come  in. 

General  Ely  S.  Parker  was  the  "  big  Indi- 
an" of  Mulberry  street  in  a  very  real  sense. 
Though  he  was  a  clerk  in  the  Police  Depart- 
ment and  never  went  on  the  war-path  any 
more,  he  was  the  head  of  the  ancient  Indian 
Confederacy,  chief  of  the  Six  Nations,  once  so 
powerful  for  mischief,  and  now  a  mere  name 
that  frightens  no  one.  Donegahawa— one 
cannot  help  wishing  that  the  picturesque  old 
chief  had  kept  his  name  of  the  council  lodge 
—was  not  born  to  sit  writing  at  an  office  desk. 
In  youth  he  tracked  the  bear  and  the  panther 
in  the  Northern  woods.  The  scattered  rem- 
nants of  the  tribes  East  and  West  owned  his 
rightful  authority  as  chief.  The  Canaghwa- 
gas  were  one  of  these.  So  these  lost  ones  had 
come  straight  to  the  official  and  actual  head 
of  their  people  when  they  were  stranded  in 
the   great  city.      They  knew  it  when  they 


78  A  DREAM   OF   THE  WOODS 

heard  the  magic  name  of  Donegahawa,  and 
sat  silently  waiting  and  wondering  till  he 
should  come.  The  child  looked  up  admiringly 
at  the  gold-laced  cap  of  Inspector  Williams, 
when  he  took  her  on  his  knee,  and  the  stem 
face  of  the  big  policeman  relaxed  and  grew 
tender  as  a  woman's  as  he  took  her  face  be- 
tween his  hands  and  kissed  it. 

"When  the  general  came  in,  he  spoke  to 
them  at  once  in  their  own  tongue,  and  very 
sweet  and  musical  it  was.  Then  their  trou- 
bles were  soon  over.  The  sachem,  when  he 
had  heard  their  woes,  said  two  words  be- 
tween puffs  of  his  pipe  that  cleared  all  the 
shadows  away.  They  sounded  to  the  pale- 
face ear  like  '^  Huh  Hoo— ochsjawai,"  or  some- 
thing equally  barbarous,  but  they  meant  that 
there  were  not  so  many  Indians  in  town  but 
that  theirs  could  be  found,  and  in  that  the 
sachem  was  right.  The  number  of  redskins 
in  Thompson  street— they  all  live  over  there— 
is  about  seven. 

The  old  squaw,  when  she  was  told  that  her 
friend  would  be  found,  got  up  promptly,  and, 
bowing  first  to  Inspector  Williams  and  the 
other  officials  in  the  room,  and  next  to  the 
general,  said  very  sweetly,  "Njeawa,"  and 
Lightfoot— that  was  the  child's  name,  it  ap- 


A  DREAM  OF   THE   WOODS  79 

peared— said  it  after  her;  which  meant,  the 
general  explained,  that  they  were  very  much 
obHged.  Then  they  went  out  in  charge  of  a 
policeman,  to  begin  their  search,  little  Light- 
foot  hugging  her  doll  and  looking  back  over 
her  shoulder  at  the  many  gold-laced  police- 
men who  had  captured  her  little  heart.  And 
they  kissed  their  hands  after  her. 

Mulberry  street  awoke  from  its  dream  of 
youth,  of  the  fields  and  the  deep  woods,  to  the 
knowledge  that  it  was  a  bad  day.  The  old 
doorman,  who  had  stood  at  the  gate  patiently 
answering  questions  for  twenty  years,  told  the 
first  man  who  came  looking  for  a  lost  child, 
with  sudden  resentment,  that  he  ought  to  be 
locked  up  for  losing  her,  and,  pushing  him 
out  in  the  rain,  slammed  the  door  after  him. 


A  HEATHEN  BABY 

A  STACK  of  mail  comes  to  Police  Head- 
quarters every  morning  from  the  pre- 
cincts by  special  department  carrier.  It  in- 
cludes the  reports  for  the  last  twenty-four 
hours  of  stolen  and  recovered  goods,  com- 
plaints, and  the  thousand  and  one  things  the 
official  mail-bag  contains  from  day  to  day.  It 
is  all  routine,  and  everything  has  its  own 
pigeonhole  into  which  it  drops  and  is  for- 
gotten until  some  raking  up  in  the  depart- 
ment turns  up  the  old  blotters  and  the  old 
things  once  more.  But  at  last  the  mail-bag 
contained  something  that  was  altogether  out 
of  the  usual  run,  to  wit,  a  Chinese  baby. 

Piccaninnies  have  come  in  it  before  this, 
lots  of  them,  black  and  shiny,  and  one  pa- 
poose from  a  West-Side  wigwam  j  but  a  Chi- 
nese baby  never. 

80 


A  HEATHEN  BABY  81 

Sergeant  Jack  was  so  astonished  that  it 
took  his  breath  away.  When  he  recovered 
he  spoke  learnedly  about  its  clothes  as  evi- 
dence of  its  heathen  origin.  Never  saw  such 
a  thing  before,  he  said.  They  were  like  they 
were  sewn  on ;  it  was  impossible  to  disen- 
tangle that  child  by  any  way  short  of  rolling 
it  on  the  floor. 

Sergeant  Jack  is  an  old  bachelor,  and  that 
is  all  he  knows  about  babies.  The  child  was 
not  sewn  up  at  all.  It  was  just  swaddled,  and 
no  Chinese  had  done  that,  but  the  Italian 
woman  who  found  it.  Sergeant  Jack  sees 
such  babies  every  night  in  Mulberry  street, 
but  that  is  the  way  with  old  bachelors.  They 
don't  know  much,  anyhow. 

It  was  clear  that  the  baby  thought  so.  She 
was  a  little  girl,  very  little,  only  one  night 
old;  and  she  regarded  him  through  her 
almond  eyes  with  a  supercilious  look,  as  who 
should  say,  ^'Now,  if  he  was  only  a  bottle, 
instead  of  a  big,  useless  policeman,  why,  one 
might  put  up  with  him";  which  reflection 
opened  the  flood-gates  of  grief  and  set  the  lit- 
tle Chinee  squalling :  ^'  Yow  !  Yow !  Yap  !  " 
until  the  sergeant  held  his  ears,  and  a  police- 
man carried  it  up-stairs  in  a  hurry. 

Down-stairs  first,  in  the  sergeant's  big  blot- 


82  A  HEATHEN  BABY 

ter,  and  up-stairs  in  the  matron's  nursery 
next,  the  baby's  brief  official  history  was  re- 
corded. There  was  very  little  of  it,  indeed^ 
and  what  there  was  was  not  marked  by  much 
ceremony.  The  stork  had  n't  brought  it,  as 
it  does  in  far-off  Denmark  j  nor  had  the  doc- 
tor found  it  and  brought  it  in,  on  the  Amer- 
ican plan. 

An  Italian  woman  had  just  scratched  it 
out  of  an  ash-barrel.  Perhaps  that 's  the  way 
they  find  babies  in  China,  in  which  case  the 
sympathy  of  all  American  mothers  and  fathers 
will  be  with  the  present  despoilers  of  the 
heathen  Chinee,  who  is  entitled  to  no  consid- 
eration whatever  until  he  introduces  a  new 
way. 

The  Italian  woman  was  Mrs.  Maria  Le- 
panto.  She  lives  in  Thompson  street,  but  she 
had  come  all  the  way  down  to  the  corner  of 
Elizabeth  and  Canal  streets  with  her  little 
girl  to  look  at  a  procession  passing  by.  That 
as  everybody  knows,  is  next  door  to  China- 
town. It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  the  end  of  the 
procession  was  in  sight,  when  she  noticed 
something  stirring  in  an  ash-barrel  that  stood 
against  the  wall.  She  thought  first  it  was  a 
rat,  and  was  going  to  run,  when  a  noise  that 
was  certainly  not  a  rat's  squeal  came  from 


A  HEATHEN  BABY  83 

the  barrel.  The  child  clung  to  her  hand  and 
dragged  her  toward  the  sound. 

^^  Oh,  mama ! "  she  cried,  in  wild  excite- 
ment, "  hear  it !  It  is  n't  a  rat !  I  know ! 
Hear ! " 

It  was  a  wail,  a  very  tiny  wail,  ever  so 
sorry,  as  well  it  might  be,  coming  from  a 
baby  that  was  cradled  in  an  ash-barrel.  It 
was  little  Susie's  eager  hands  that  snatched 
it  out.  Then  they  saw  that  it  was  indeed  a 
child,  a  poor,  helpless,  grieving  little  baby. 

It  had  nothing  on  at  all,  not  even  a  rag. 
Perhaps  they  had  not  had  time  to  dress  it. 

"  Oh,  it  will  fit  my  dolly's  jacket ! "  cried 
Susie,  dancing  around  and  hugging  it  in  glee. 
"■  It  will,  mama !  A  real  live  baby  !  Now 
Tilde  need  n't  brag  of  theirs.  We  will  take 
it  home,  won't  we,  mama  1 " 

The  bands  brayed,  and  the  flickering  light 
of  many  torches  filled  the  night.  The  proces- 
sion had  gone  down  the  street,  and  the  crowd 
with  it.  The  poor  woman  wrapped  the  baby 
in  her  worn  shawl  and  gave  it  to  the  girl  to 
carry.  And  Susie  carried  it,  prouder  and 
happier  than  any  of  the  men  that  marched  to 
the  music.  So  they  arrived  home.  The  little 
stranger  had  found  friends  and  a  resting- 
place. 


84  A  HEATHEN  BABY 

But  not  for  long.  In  the  morning  Mrs. 
Lepanto  took  counsel  with  the  neighbors,  and 
was  told  that  the  child  must  be  given  to  the 
police.  That  was  the  law,  they  said,  and  though 
little  Susie  cried  bitterly  at  having  to  part  with 
her  splendid  new  toy,  Mrs.  Lepanto,  being  a 
law-abiding  woman,  wrapped  up  her  find  and 
took  it  to  the  Macdougal-street  station. 

That  was  the  way  it  got  to  Headquarters 
with  the  morning  mail,  and  how  Sergeant 
Jack  got  a  chance  to  tell  all  he  did  n't  know 
about  babies.  Matron  Travers  knew  more, 
a  good  deal.  She  tucked  the  little  heathen 
away  in  a  trundle-bed  with  a  big  bottle,  and 
blessed  silence  fell  at  once  on  Headquarters. 
In  five  minutes  the  child  was  asleep. 

"While  it  slept.  Matron  Travers  entered  it  in 
her  book  as  "No.  103  "  of  that  year's  crop  of 
the  gutter,  and  before  it  woke  up  she  was  on 
the  way  with  it,  snuggled  safely  in  a  big  gray 
shawl,  up  to  the  Charities.  There  Mr.  Bauer 
registered  it  under  yet  another  number, 
chucked  it  under  the  chin,  and  chirped  at  it 
in  what  he  probably  thought  might  pass  for 
baby  Chinese.  Then  it  got  another  big  bottle 
and  went  to  sleep  once  more. 

At  ten  o'clock  there  came  a  big  ship  on  pur- 
pose to  give  the  little  Mott-street  waif  a  ride  up 


A  HEATHEN  BABY  85 

the  river,  and  by  dinner-time  it  was  on  a  green 
island  with  four  hundred  other  babies  of  all 
kinds  and  shades,  but  not  one  just  like  it  in 
the  whole  lot.  For  it  was  New  York's  first 
and  only  Chinese  foundling.  As  to  that  Su- 
perintendent Bauer,  Matron  Travers,  and  Mrs. 
Lepanto  agreed.  Sergeant  Jack's  evidence 
does  n't  count,  except  as  backed  by  his  supe- 
riors. He  does  n't  know  a  heathen  baby  when 
he  sees  one. 

The  island  where  the  waif  from  Mott  street 
cast  anchor  is  called  Randall's  Island,  and 
there  its  stay  ends,  or  begins.  The  chances 
are  that  it  ends,  for  with  an  ash-barrel  filling 
its  past  and  a  foundling  asylum  its  future,  a 
baby  has  n't  much  of  a  show.  Babies  were 
made  to  be  hugged  each  by  one  pair  of  mo- 
ther's arms,  and  neither  white-capped  nurses 
nor  sleek  milch-cows  fed  on  the  fattest  of 
meadow-grass  can  take  their  place,  try  as  they 
may.  The  babies  know  that  they  are  cheated, 
and  they  will  not  stay. 


HE  KEPT  HIS  TRYST 

POLICEMAN  SCHULTZ  was  stamping 
up  and  down  his  beat  in  Hester  street 
trying  to  keep  warm,  on  the  night  before 
Christmas,  when  a  human  wreck,  in  rum  and 
rags,  shuffled  across  his  path  and  hailed  him : 

"You  alius  treated  me  fair,  Sehultz,"  it 
said ;  "  say,  will  you  do  a  thing  for  me  ? " 

"  What  is  it,  Denny  ?  "  said  the  officer.  He 
had  recognized  the  wreck  as  Denny  the  Rob- 
ber, a  tramp  who  had  haunted  his  beat  ever 
since  he  had  been  on  it,  and  for  years  before, 
he  had  heard,  further  back  than  any  one 
knew. 

"  WiU  you,"  said  the  wreck,  wistfully—  "  will 
you  run  me  in  and  give  me  about  three 
months  to-morrow  ?    "WiU  you  do  it  ? " 

'^That  I  will,"  said  Sehultz.  He  had  often 
done  it  before,  sometimes  for  three,  sometimes 

86 


HE  KEPT   HIS   TRYST  87 

for  six  months,  and  sometimes  for  ten  days, 
according  to  how  he  and  Denny  and  the  justice 
felt  about  it.  In  the  spell  between  trips  to 
the  island,  Denny  was  a  regular  pensioner  of 
the  policeman,  who  let  him  have  a  quarter  or 
so  when  he  had  so  little  money  as  to  be  next 
to  desperate.  He  never  did  get  quite  to  that 
point.  Perhaps  the  policeman's  quarters  saved 
liim.  His  nickname  of  ''the  Robber"  was 
given  to  him  on  the  same  principle  that 
dubbed  the  neighborhood  he  haunted  the  Pig 
Market— because  pigs  are  the  only  ware  not 
for  sale  there.  Denny  never  robbed  any- 
body. The  only  thing  he  ever  stole  was  the 
time  he  should  have  spent  in  working.  There 
was  no  denying  it,  Denny  was  a  loafer.  He 
himself  had  told  Schultz  that  it  was  because 
his  wife  and  children  put  him  out  of  their 
house  in  Madison  street  five  years  before. 
Perhaps  if  his  wife's  story  had  been  heard  it 
would  have  reversed  that  statement  of  facts. 
But  nobody  ever  heard  it.  Nobody  took  the 
trouble  to  inquire.  The  O'Neil  family— that 
was  understood  to  be  the  name— interested 
no  one  in  Jewtown.  One  of  its  members 
was  enough.  Except  that  Mrs.  O'Neil  lived 
in  Madison  street,  somewhere  "  near  Lundy's 
store,"  nothing  was  known  of  her. 


88  HE  KEPT  HIS  TRYST 

"  That  I  will,  Denny,"  repeated  the  police- 
man, heartily,  slipping  him  a  dime  for  luck. 
"  You  come  around  to-morrow,  and  I  will  run 
you  in.    Now  go  along." 

But  Denny  did  n't  go,  though  he  had  the 
price  of  two  "balls"  at  the  distillery.  He 
shifted  thoughtfully  on  his  feet,  and  said : 

"Say,  Schultz,  if  I  should  die  now,— I  am 
all  full  o^  rheumatiz,  and  sore,— if  I  should 
die  before,  would  you  see  to  me  and  tell  the 
wife?" 

"  Small  fear  of  yer  dying,  Denny,  with  the 
price  of  two  drinks,"  said  the  policeman,  pok- 
ing him  facetiously  in  the  ribs  with  his  club. 
"  Don't  you  worry.  All  the  same,  if  you  will 
tell  me  where  the  old  woman  lives,  I  will  let 
her  know.    What 's  the  number  ? " 

But  the  Robber's  mood  had  changed  under 
the  touch  of  the  silver  dime  that  burned  his 
palm.  "Never  mind,  Schultz,"  he  said;  "I 
guess  I  won't  kick ;  so  long !  "  and  moved  off. 

The  snow  drifted  wickedly  down  Suffolk 
street  Christmas  morning,  pinching  noses  and 
ears  and  cheeks  already  pinched  by  hunger 
and  want.  It  set  around  the  corner  into  the 
Pig  Market,  where  the  hucksters  plodded 
knee-deep  in  the  drifts,  burying  the  horse- 


HE  KEPT  HIS  TRYST  89 

radish  man  and  his  machine,  and  coating  the 
hare,  plucked  breasts  of  the  geese  that  swung 
from  countless  hooks  at  the  corner  stand 
with  softer  and  whiter  down  than  ever  grew 
there.  It  drove  the  suspender-man  into  the 
hallway  of  a  Suffolk-street  tenement,  where 
he  tried  to  pluck  the  icicles  from  his  frozen 
ears  and  beard  with  numb  and  powerless 
fingers. 

As  he  stepped  out  of  the  way  of  some  one 
entering  with  a  blast  that  set  like  a  cold 
shiver  up  through  the  house,  he  stumbled  over 
something,  and  put  down  his  hand  to  feel 
what  it  was.  It  touched  a  cold  face,  and  the 
house  rang  with  a  shriek  that  silenced  the 
cUnk  of  glasses  in  the  distillery,  against  the 
side  door  of  which  the  something  lay.  They 
crowded  out,  glasses  in  hand,  to  see  what  it 
was. 

"Only  a  dead  tramp,"  said  some  one,  and 
the  crowd  went  back  to  the  warm  saloon, 
where  the  barrels  lay  in  rows  on  the  racks. 
The  chnk  of  glasses  and  shouts  of  laughter 
came  through  the  peep-hole  in  the  door  into 
the  dark  hallway  as  Policeman  Schultz  bent 
over  the  stiff,  cold  shape.  Some  one  had 
called  him. 

"Denny,"   he   said,  tugging  at  his  sleeve. 


90  HE  KEPT  HIS   TRYST 

*'  Denny,  come.  Your  time  is  up.  I  am  here." 
Denny  never  stirred.  The  policeman  looked 
up,  white  in  the  face. 

"My  God !  "  he  said,  "he  's  dead.  But  he 
kept  his  date." 

And  so  he  had.  Denny  the  Robber  was 
dead.  Rum  and  exposure  and  the  "rheu- 
matiz"  had  killed  him.  Policeman  Schultz 
kept  his  word,  too,  and  had  him  taken  to 
the  station  on  a  stretcher. 

"He  was  a  bad  penny,"  said  the  saloon- 
keeper, and  no  one  in  Jewtown  was  found  to 
contradict  him. 


JOHN  aAVIN,  MISFIT 

JOHN  GAVIN  was  to  blame— there  is  no 
doubt  of  that.  To  be  sure,  he  was  out  of 
a  job,  vnth.  never  a  cent  in  his  pockets,  his 
babies  starving,  and  notice  served  by  the 
landlord  that  day.  He  had  traveled  the 
streets  till  midnight  looking  for  work,  and 
had  found  none.  And  so  he  gave  up.  Gave 
up,  with  the  Employment  Bureau  in  the  next 
street  registering  applicants ,  with  the  Way- 
farers' Lodge  over  in  Poverty  Gap,  where  he 
might  have  earned  fifty  cents,  anyway,  chop- 
ping wood;  with  charities  without  end,  or- 
ganized and  unorganized,  that  would  have 
referred  his  case,  had  they  done  nothing  else. 
With  all  these  things  and  a  hundred  like 
them  to  meet  their  wants,  the  Gavins  of  our 
day  have  been  told  often  enough  that  they 
have  no  business  to  lose  hope.      That  they 

91 


92  JOHN  GAVIN,  MISFIT 

will  persist  is  strange.     But  perhaps  this 
one  had  never  heard  of  them. 

Anyway,  Gavin  is  dead.  But  yesterday  he 
was  the  father  of  six  children,  running  from 
May,  the  eldest,  who  was  thirteen  and  at 
school,  to  the  baby,  just  old  enough  to  poke 
its  little  fingers  into  its  father's  eyes  and 
crow  and  jump  when  he  came  in  from  his 
long  and  dreary  tramps.  They  were  as 
happy  a  little  family  as  a  family  of  eight 
could  be  with  the  wolf  scratching  at  the  door, 
its  nose  already  poking  through.  There  had 
been  no  work  and  no  wages  in  the  house  for 
months,  and  the  landlord  had  given  notice 
that  at  the  end  of  the  week  out  they  must  go, 
unless  the  back  rent  was  paid.  And  there 
was  about  as  much  likelihood  of  its  being 
paid  as  of  a  slice  of  the  February  sun  drop- 
ping down  through  the  ceiling  into  the  room 
to  warm  the  shivering  Gavin  family. 

It  began  when  Gavin's  health  gave  way. 
He  was  a  lather  and  had  a  steady  job  till 
sickness  came.  It  was  the  old  story :  nothing 
laid  away— how  could  there  be,  with  a  house- 
ful of  children?— and  nothing  coming  in. 
They  talk  of  death-rates  to  measure  the  mis- 
ery of  the  slum  by,  but  death  does  not  touch 
the  bottom.     It  ends  the  misery.     Sickness 


JOHN  GAVIN,   MISFIT  93 

only  begins  it.  It  began  Gavin's.  When  lie 
had  to  drop  hammer  and  nails,  he  got  a  job 
in  a  saloon  as  a  barkeeper;  but  the  saloon 
did  n't  prosper,  and  when  it  was  shut  up, 
there  was  an  end.  Gavin  did  n't  know  it 
then.  He  looked  at  the  babies  and  kept  up 
spirits  as  well  as  he  could,  though  it  wrung 
his  heart. 

He  tried  ever^^thing  under  the  sun  to  get  a 
job.  He  traveled  early  and  traveled  late, 
but  wherever  he  went  they  had  men  and  to 
spare.  And  besides,  he  was  ill.  As  they  told 
him  bluntly,  sometimes,  they  did  n't  have 
any  use  for  sick  men.  Men  to  work  and 
earn  wages  must  be  strong.  And  he  had  to 
own  that  it  was  true. 

Gavin  was  not  strong.  As  he  denied  him- 
self secretly  the  noui'ishment  he  needed  that 
his  little  ones  might  have  enough,  he  felt  it 
more  and  more.  It  was  harder  work  for  him 
to  get  around,  and  each  refusal  left  him 
more  downcast.  He  was  yet  a  young  man, 
only  thirty-four,  but  he  felt  as  if  he  was  old 
and  tired— tired  out;  that  was  it. 

The  feeling  grew  on  him  while  he  went  his 
last  errand,  offering  his  services  at  saloons 
and  wherever,  as  he  thought,  an  opening 
offered.     In  fact,  he  thought  but  little  about 


94  JOHN  GAVIN,   MISFIT 

it  any  more.  The  whole  thing  had  become 
an  empty,  hopeless  formality  with  him.  He 
knew  at  last  that  he  was  looking  for  the 
thing  he  would  never  findj  that  in  a  cityful 
where  every  man  had  his  place  he  was  a  mis- 
fit with  none.  With  his  dull  brain  dimly 
conscious  of  that  one  idea,  he  plodded  home- 
ward in  the  midnight  hour.  He  had  been 
on  the  go  since  early  morning,  and  excepting 
some  lunch  from  the  saloon  counters,  had 
eaten  nothing. 

The  lamp  burned  dimly  in  the  room  where 
May  sat  poring  yet  over  her  books,  waiting  for 
papa.  When  he  came  in  she  looked  up  and 
smiled,  but  saw  by  his  look,  as  he  hung  up  his 
hat,  that  there  was  no  good  news,  and  returned 
with  a  sigh  to  her  book.  The  tired  mother 
was  asleep  on  the  bed,  dressed,  with  the  baby 
in  her  arms.  She  had  lain  down  to  quiet  it 
and  had  been  lulled  to  sleep  with  it  herself. 

Gavin  did  not  wake  them.  He  went  to  the 
bed  where  the  four  little  ones  slept,  and  kissed 
them,  each  in  his  turn,  then  came  back  and 
kissed  his  wife  and  baby. 

May  nestled  close  to  him  as  he  bent  over 
her  and  gave  her,  too,  a  little  hug. 

"Where  are  you  going,  papa?"  she  asked. 

He  turned  around  at  the  door  and  cast  a 
look  back  at  the  quiet  room,  irresolute.    Then 


JOHN  GA^^N,   MISFIT  95 

he  went  back  once  more  to  kiss  his  sleeping 
wife  and  baby  softly. 

But  however  softly,  it  woke  the  mother. 
She  saw  him  making  for  the  door,  and  asked 
him  where  he  meant  to  go  so  late. 

'^  Out,  just  a  little  while,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  was  husky.     He  turned  his  head  away. 

A  woman's  instinct  made  her  arise  hastily 
and  go  to  him. 

"Don't  go,"  she  said 3  "please  don't  go 
away." 

As  he  still  moved  toward  the  door,  she  put 
her  arm  about  his  neck  and  drew  his  head 
toward  her. 

She  strove  with  him  anxiously,  frightened, 
she  hardly  knew  herself  by  what.  The  lamp- 
light fell  upon  something  shining  which  he 
held  behind  his  back.  The  room  rang  with 
the  shot,  and  the  baby  awoke  crying,  to  see  its 
father  slip  from  mama's  arms  to  the  floor,  dead. 

For  John  Gavin,  alive,  there  was  no  place. 
At  least  he  did  not  find  it ;  for  which,  let  it 
be  said  and  done  with,  he  was  to  blame. 
Dead,  society  will  find  one  for  him.  And  for 
the  one  misfit  got  off  the  list  there  are  seven 
whom  not  employment  bureau  nor  woodyard 
nor  charity  register  can  be  made  to  reach. 
Social  economy  the  thing  is  called;  which 
makes  the  eighth  misfit. 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL 

THE  fact  was  printed  the  other  day  that  the 
haK-hundred  children  or  more  who  are  in 
the  hospitals  on  North  Brother  Island  had  no 
playthings,  not  even  a  rattle,  to  make  the  long 
days  skip  by,  which,  set  in  smallpox,  scarlet 
fever,  and  measles,  must  be  longer  there  than 
anywhere  else  in  the  world.  The  toys  that 
were  brought  over  there  with  a  consignment 
of  nursery  tots  who  had  the  typhus  fever  had 
been  worn  clean  out,  except  some  fish-horns 
which  the  doctor  frowned  on,  and  which  were 
therefore  not  allowed  at  large.  Not  as  much 
as  a  red  monkey  on  a  yellow  stick  was  there  left 
on  the  island  to  make  the  youngsters  happy. 
That  afternoon  a  big,  hearty-looking  man 
came  into  the  office  with  the  paper  in  his  hand, 
and  demanded  to  see  the  editor.  He  had  come, 
he  said,  to  see  to  it  that  those  sick  youngsters 

96 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL  97 

got  the  playthings  they  were  entitled  to ;  and 
a  regular  Santa  Clans  he  proved  to  the  friend- 
less little  colony  on  the  lonely  island,  for  he 
left  a  crisp  fifty-dollar  note  behind  when  he 
went  away  without  giving  his  name.  The  sin- 
gle condition  was  attached  to  the  gift  that  it 
should  be  spent  buying  toys  for  the  children 
on  North  Brother  Island. 

Accordingly,  a  strange  invading  army  took 
the  island  by  storm  three  or  four  nights  ago. 
Under  cover  of  the  darkness  it  had  itself 
ferried  over  from  One  Hundred  and  Thirty- 
eighth  street  in  the  department  yawl,  and  be- 
fore morning  it  was  in  undisputed  possession. 
It  has  come  to  stay.  Not  a  doll  or  a  sheep 
win  ever  leave  the  island  again.  They  may 
riot  upon  it  as  they  please,  within  certain 
weU-defined  limits,  but  none  of  them  can  ever 
cross  the  channel  to  the  mainland  again,  un- 
less it  be  the  rubber  doUs  who  can  swim,  so 
it  is  said.    Here  is  the  muster-roll : 

Six  sheep  (four  with  lambs),  six  fairies  (big 
dolls  in  street-dress),  twelve  rubber  dolls  (in 
woolen  jackets),  four  railroad-trains,  twenty- 
eight  base-balls,  twenty  rubber  balls,  six  big 
painted  (Scotch  plaid)  rubber  balls,  six  still 
bigger  ditto,  seven  boxes  of  blocks,  half  a 
dozen  music-boxes,  twenty-four  rattles,  six 


98  IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL 

bubble  (soap)  toys,  twelve  small  engines,  six 
games  of  dominoes,  twelve  rubber  toys  (old 
woman  who  lived  in  a  shoe,  etc.),  five  wooden 
toys  (bad  bear,  etc.),  thirty-six  horse-reins. 

As  there  is  only  one  horse  on  the  island, 
and  that  one  a  very  steady-going  steed  in  no 
urgent  need  of  restraint,  this  last  item  might 
seem  superfluous,  but  only  to  the  uninstructed 
mind.  Within  a  brief  week  half  the  boys  and 
girls  on  the  island  that  are  out  of  bed  long 
enough  to  stand  on  their  feet  will  be  trans- 
formed into  ponies  and  the  other  half  into 
drivers,  and  flying  teams  will  go  cavorting 
around  to  the  tune  of  "Johnny,  Get  your 
Gun,"  and  the  ''Jolly  Brothers  Gallop,"  as 
they  are  ground  out  of  the  music-boxes  by 
little  fingers  that  but  just  now  toyed  feebly 
with  the  balusters  on  the  golden  stair. 

That  music!  When  I  went  over  to  the 
island  it  fell  upon  my  ears  in  little  drops  of 
sweet  melody,  as  soon  as  I  came  in  sight  of 
the  nurses'  quarters.  I  listened,  but  could  n't 
make  out  the  tune.  The  drops  seemed  mixed. 
When  I  opened  the  door  upon  one  of  the 
nurses.  Dr.  Dixon,  and  the  hospital  matron, 
each  grinding  his  or  her  music  for  all  there 
was  in  it,  and  looking  perfectly  happy  "withal, 
I  understood  why. 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL  99 

They  were  all  playing  different  tunes  at  the 
same  time,  the  nurse  "When  the  Robins 
Nest  Again,"  Dr.  Dixon  "  Nancy  Lee,"  and  the 
visitor  "  Sweet  Violets."  A  little  child  stood 
by  in  open-mouthed  admiration,  that  became 
ecstasy  when  I  joined  in  with  "  The  Babies 
on  our  Block."  It  was  all  for  the  little  one's 
benefit,  and  she  thought  it  beautiful  without 
a  doubt. 

The  storekeeper,  knowing  that  music  hath 
charms  to  soothe  the  breast  of  even  a  typhus- 
fever  patient,  had  thrown  in  a  dozen  as  his 
own  gift.  Thus  one  good  deed  brings  on 
another,  and  a  good  deal  more  than  fifty  dol- 
lars' worth  of  happiness  will  be  ground  out  on 
the  island  before  there  is  an  end  of  the  music. 

There  is  one  little  girl  in  the  measles  ward 
already  who  will  eat  only  when  her  nurse  sits 
by  grinding  out  "  Nancy  Lee."  She  cannot  be 
made  to  swallow  one  mouthful  on  any  other 
condition.  No  other  nurse  and  no  other  tune 
but  "  Nancy  Lee  "  will  do— neither  the  ''  Star- 
Spangled  Banner"  nor  "The  Babies  on  our 
Block."  Whether  it  is  Nancy  all  by  her  melo- 
dious self,  or  the  beautiful  picture  of  her  in  a 
sailor's  suit  on  the  lid  of  the  box,  or  the  two 
and  the  nurse  and  the  dinner  together,  that 
serve  to  soothe  her,  is  a  question  of  some  con- 


100      IN   THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL 

cern  to  the  island,  since  Nancy  and  the  nurse 
have  shown  signs  of  giving  out  together. 

Three  of  the  six  sheep  that  were  bought  for 
the  ridiculously  low  price  of  eighty-nine  cents 
apiece,  the  lambs  being  thrown  in  as  make- 
weight, were  grazing  on  the  mixed-measles 
lawn  over  on  the  east  shore  of  the  island, 
with  a  fairy  in  evening  dress  eying  them 
rather  disdainfully  in  the  grasp  of  tearful 
Annie  Cullum.  Annie  is  a  foundling  from 
the  asylum  temporarily  sojourning  here.  The 
measles  and  the  scarlet  fever  were  the  only 
things  that  ever  took  kindly  to  her  in  her 
little  life.  They  tackled  her  both  at  once,  and 
poor  Annie,  after  a  six  or  eight  weeks'  tussle 
with  them,  has  just  about  enough  spunk  left 
to  cry  when  anybody  looks  at  her. 

Three  woolly  sheep  and  a  fairy  all  at  once 
have  robbed  her  of  all  hope,  and  in  the  midst 
of  it  all  she  weeps  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  Even  when  the  nurse  pulls  one  of  the 
unresisting  mutton  heads,  and  it  emits  a  loud 
^^  Baa-a,"  she  stops  only  just  for  a  second  or 
two  and  then  wails  again.  The  sheep  look 
rather  surprised,  as  they  have  a  right  to. 
They  have  come  to  be  little  Annie's  steady 
company,  hers  and  her  fellow-sufferers'  in  the 
mixed-measles  ward.     The  triangular  lawn 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL        101 

upon  which  they  are  browsing  is  theirs  to 
gambol  on  when  the  sun  shines,  but  cross 
the  walk  that  borders  it  they  never  can,  any 
more  than  the  babies  with  whom  they  play. 
Sumptuary  law  rules  the  island  they  are  on. 
Habeas  corpus  and  the  constitution  stop 
short  of  the  ferry.  Even  Comstock's  author- 
ity does  not  cross  it:  the  one  exception  to 
the  rule  that  dolls  and  sheep  and  babies  shall 
not  visit  from  ward  to  ward  is  in  favor  of 
the  rubber  dolls,  and  the  etiquette  of  the 
island  requires  that  they  shall  lay  off  their 
woolen  jackets  and  go  calling  just  as  the  fac- 
tory turned  them  out,  without  a  stitch  or 
shred  of  any  kind  on. 

As  for  the  rest,  they  are  assigned,  babies, 
nurses,  sheep,  rattles,  and  railroad-trains,  to 
their  separate  measles,  scarlet-fever,  and  diph- 
theria lawns  or  wards,  and  there  must  be 
content  to  stay.  A  sheep  may  be  transferred 
from  the  scarlet-fever  ward  with  its  patron 
to  the  mixed-measles  or  diphtheria,  when 
symptoms  of  either  of  these  diseases  appear, 
as  they  often  do ;  but  it  cannot  then  go  back 
again,  lest  it  carry  the  seeds  of  the  new  con- 
tagion to  its  old  friends. 

Even  the  fairies  are  put  under  the  ban  of 
suspicion  by  such  evil  associations,  and,  once 


102      IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL 

they  have  crossed  the  line,  are  not  allowed  to 
go  back  to  corrupt  the  good  manners  of  the 
babies  with  only  one  complaint. 

Pauline  Meyer,  the  bigger  of  the  two  girls 
on  the  mixed-measles  stoop,— the  other  is 
friendless  Annie,— has  just  enough  strength 
to  laugh  when  her  sheep's  head  is  pulled. 
She  has  been  on  the  limits  of  one  ward  after 
another  these  four  months,  and  has  had  every- 
thing short  of  typhus  fever  and  smallpox 
that  the  island  affords. 

It  is  a  marvel  that  there  is  one  laugh  left 
in  her  whole  little  shrunken  body  after  it  aU ; 
but  there  is,  and  the  grin  on  her  face  reaches 
almost  from  ear  to  ear,  as  she  clasps  the  big- 
gest fairy  in  an  arm  very  little  stouter  than 
a  boy's  bean-blower,  and  hears  the  lamb  bleat. 
Why,  that  one  smile  on  that  ghastly  face 
would  be  thought  worth  his  fifty  dollars  by 
the  children's  friend,  could  he  see  it.  Pauline 
is  the  child  of  Swedish  emigrants.  She  and 
Annie  will  not  fight  over  their  lambs  and 
their  dolls,  not  for  many  weeks.  They  can't. 
They  can't  even  stand  up. 

One  of  the  railroad-trains,  drawn  by  a  glo- 
rious tin  engine,  with  the  name  ''Union" 
painted  on  the  cab,  is  making  across  the 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S   HOSPITAL      103 

stoop  for  the  little  boy  with  the  whooping- 
cough  in  the  next  building.  But  it  won't 
get  there;  it  is  quarantined.  But  it  will 
have  plenty  of  exercise.  Little  hands  are 
itching  to  get  hold  of  it  in  one  of  the  cribs 
inside.  There  are  thirty-six  sick  children  on 
the  island  just  now,  about  half  of  them  boys, 
who  will  find  plenty  of  use  for  the  balls  and 
things  as  soon  as  they  get  about.  How  those 
base-balls  are  to  be  kept  within  bounds  is  a 
hopeless  mystery  the  doctors  are  puzzling 
over. 

Even  if  nines  are  organized  in  every  ward, 
as  has  been  suggested,  it  is  hard  to  see  how 
they  can  be  allowed  to  play  each  other,  as  they 
would  want  to,  of  course,  as  soon  as  they 
could  toddle  about.  It  would  be  something, 
though,  a  smallpox  nine  pitted  against  the 
scarlets  or  the  measles,  with  an  umpire  from 
the  mixed  ward ! 

The  old  woman  that  lived  in  a  shoe,  being 
of  rubber,  is  a  privileged  character,  and  is 
away  on  a  call  in  the  female  scarlet,  says  the 
nurse.  It  is  a  good  thing  that  she  was  made 
that  way,  for  she  is  very  popular.  So  are 
Mother  Goose  and  her  ten  companion  rubber 
toys.     The  bear  and  the  man  that  strike  al- 


104      IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL 

ternately  a  wooden  anvil  with  a  ditto  hammer 
are  scarcely  less  exciting  to  the  infantile 
mind  J  but,  being  of  wood,  they  are  steady 
boarders  permanently  attached  each  to  his 
ward.  The  dominoes  fell  to  the  lot  of  the 
male  scarlets.  That  ward  has  half  a  dozen 
grown  men  in  it  at  present,  and  they  have 
never  once  lost  sight  of  the  little  black  blocks 
since  they  first  saw  them. 

The  doctor  reports  that  they  are  getting 
better  just  as  fast  as  they  can  since  they  took 
to  playing  dominoes.  If  there  is  any  hint  in 
this  to  the  profession  at  large,  they  are  wel- 
come to  it,  along  with  humanity. 

A  little  girl  with  a  rubber  doll  in  a  red- 
woolen  jacket— a  combination  to  make  the 
perspiration  run  right  off  one  with  the  hu- 
midity at  98— looks  wistfully  down  from  the 
second-story  balcony  of  the  smallpox  pavilion, 
as  the  doctor  goes  past  with  the  last  sheep 
tucked  under  his  arm. 

But  though  it  baa-a  ever  so  loudly,  it  is 
not  for  her.  It  is  bound  for  the  white  tent 
on  the  shore,  shunned  even  here,  where  sits 
a  solitary  watcher  gazing  wistfully  all  day 
toward  the  city  that  has  passed  out  of  his 
life.  Perchance  it  may  bring  to  him  a  mes- 
sage from  the  far-away  home  where  the  birds 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL      105 

sang  for  him,  and  the  waves  and  the  flowers 
spoke  to  him,  and  "  Unclean  "  had  not  been 
written  against  his  name.  Of  all  on  the  Pest 
Island  he  alone  is  hopeless.  He  is  a  leper, 
and  his  sentence  is  that  of  a  living  death  in 
a  strange  land. 


NIGGER  MARTHA'S  WAKE 

A  WOMAN  with  face  all  seared  and 
blotched  by  something  that  had  burned 
through  the  skin  sat  propped  up  in  the  door- 
way of  a  Bowery  restaurant  at  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  senseless,  apparently  dying.  A 
policeman  stood  by,  looking  anxiously  up  the 
street  and  consulting  his  watch.  At  intervals 
he  shook  her  to  make  sure  she  was  not  dead. 
The  drift  of  the  Bowery  that  was  borne  that 
way  eddied  about,  intent  upon  what  was  going 
on.  A  dumpy  little  man  edged  through  the 
crowd  and  peered  into  the  woman's  face. 

"  Phew !  "  he  said,  "  it  ^s  Nigger  Martha ! 
What  is  gettin'  into  the  girls  on  the  Bowery 
I  don't  know.  Remember  my  Maggie  ?  She 
was  her  chum." 

This  to  the  watchman  on  the  block.  The 
watchman  remembered.     He   knows   every- 

106 


NIGGER  MARTHA'S  WAKE  107 

thing  that  goes  on  in  the  Bowery.  Maggie 
was  the  wayward  daughter  of  a  decent  laun- 
dress, and  killed  herseK  by  drinking  carbolic 
acid  less  than  a  month  before.  She  had 
wearied  of  the  Bowery.  Nigger  Martha  was 
her  one  friend.  And  now  she  had  followed 
her  example. 

She  was  drunk  when  she  did  it.  It  is  in 
their  cups  that  a  glimpse  of  the  life  they 
traded  away  for  the  street  comes  sometimes 
to  these  wretches,  with  remorse  not  to  be 
borne. 

It  came  so  to  Nigger  Martha.  Ten  minutes 
before  she  had  been  sitting  with  two  boon 
companions  in  the  oyster  saloon  next  door, 
discussing  their  night's  catch.  Elsie  "Specs" 
was  one  of  the  two ;  the  other  was  known  to 
the  street  simply  as  Mame.  Elsie  wore  glasses, 
a  thing  unusual  enough  in  the  Bowery  to  de- 
serve recognition.  From  their  presence 
Martha  rose  suddenly  to  pull  a  vial  from  her 
pocket.  Mame  saw  it,  and,  knowing  what 
it  meant  in  the  heavy  humor  that  was  upon 
Nigger  Martha,  she  struck  it  from  her  hand 
with  a  pepper-box.  It  f  eU,  but  was  not  broken. 
The  woman  picked  it  up,  and  staggering  out, 
swallowed  its  contents  upon  the  sidewalk  — 
that  is,  as  much  as  went  into  her  mouth. 


108  NIGGER  MARTHA'S  WAKE 

Much  went  over  her  face,  burning  it.  She  fell 
shrieking. 

Then  came  the  crowd.  The  Bowery  never 
sleeps.  The  policeman  on  the  beat  set  her  in 
the  doorway  and  sent  a  hurry  call  for  an  am- 
bulance. It  came  at  last,  and  Nigger  Martha 
was  taken  to  the  hospital. 

As  Mame  told  it,  so  it  was  recorded  on  the 
police  blotter,  with  the  addition  that  she  was 
anywhere  from  forty  to  fifty  years  old.  That 
was  the  strange  part  of  it.  It  is  not  often 
that  any  one  lasts  out  a  generation  in  the 
Bowery.  Nigger  Martha  did.  Her  beginning 
was  way  back  in  the  palmy  days  of  BiUy 
McGlory  and  Owney  Geoghegan.  Her  first 
remembered  appearance  was  on  the  occasion 
of  the  mock  wake  they  got  up  at  Geoghegan's 
for  Police  Captain  Foley  when  he  was  bro- 
ken. That  was  in  the  days  when  dive-keep- 
ers made  and  broke  police  captains,  and  made 
no  secret  of  it.  Billy  McGlory  did  not.  Ever 
since,  Martha  was  on  the  street. 

In  time  she  picked  up  Maggie  Mooney,  and 
they  got  to  be  chummy.  The  friendships  of 
the  Bowery  by  night  may  not  be  of  a  very 
exalted  type,  but  when  death  breaks  them  it 
leaves  nothing  to  the  survivor.  That  is  the 
reason  suicides  there  happen  in  pairs.     The 


NIGGER  MARTHA'S  WAKE  109 

story  of  Tilly  Lorrison  and  Tricksy  came  from 
the  Tenderloin  not  long  ago.  This  one  of 
Maggie  Mooney  and  Nigger  Martha  was 
theirs  over  again. 

In  each  case  it  was  the  younger,  the  one 
nearest  the  life  that  was  forever  past,  who 
took  the  step  fii'st,  in  despair.  The  other  fol- 
lowed. To  her  it  was  the  last  link  with  some- 
thing that  had  long  ceased  to  be  anything  but 
a  dream,  which  was  broken.  But  without  the 
dream  life  was  unbearable,  in  the  Tenderloin 
and  on  the  Bowery. 

The  newsboys  were  crying  their  night 
extras  when  Undertaker  Reardon's  wagon 
jogged  across  the  Bowery  with  Nigger  Mar- 
tha's body  in  it.  She  had  given  the  doctors 
the  slip,  as  she  had  the  policeman  many  a  time. 
A  friend  of  hers,  an  Italian  in  the  Bend,  had 
hired  the  undertaker  to  "do  it  proper,"  and 
Nigger  Martha  was  to  have  a  funeral. 

All  the  Bowery  came  to  the  wake.  The 
all-nighters  from  Chatham  Square  to  Bleecker 
street  trooped  up  to  the  top-floor  flat  in  the 
Forsyth-street  tenement  where  Nigger  Martha 
was  laid  out.  There  they  sat  around,  saving 
little  and  drinking  much.  It  was  not  a  cheery 
crowd. 

The  Bowery  by  night  is  not  cheerful  in 


110  NIGGER  MARTHA'S  WAKE 

the  presence  of  The  Mystery.  Its  one  effort 
is  to  get  away  from  it,  to  forget— the  thing 
it  can  never  do.  When  out  of  its  sight  it 
carouses  boisterously,  as  children  sing  and 
shout  in  the  dark  to  persuade  themselves  that 
they  are  not  afraid.  And  some  who  hear 
think  it  happy. 

Sheeny  Rose  was  the  master  of  ceremonies 
and  kept  the  door.  This  for  a  purpose.  In  life 
Nigger  Martha  had  one  enemy  whom  she  hated 
—cock-eyed  Grace.  Like  all  of  her  kind,  Nig- 
ger Martha  was  superstitious.  Grace's  evil 
eye  ever  brought  her  bad  luck  when  she 
crossed  her  path,  and  she  shunned  her  as  the 
pestilence.  When  inadvertently  she  came 
upon  her,  she  turned  as  she  passed  and  spat 
twice  over  her  left  shoulder.  And  Grace,  with 
white  malice  in  her  wicked  face,  spurned  her. 

''I  don't  want,"  Nigger  Martha  had  said 
one  night  in  the  hearing  of  Sheeny  Rose— 
''  I  don't  want  that  cock-eyed  thing  to  look 
at  my  body  when  I  am  dead.  She  '11  give  me 
hard  luck  in  the  grave  yet." 

And  Sheeny  Rose  was  there  to  see  that 
cock-eyed  Grace  did  n't  come  to  the  wake. 

She  did  come.  She  labored  up  the  long 
stairs,  and  knocked,  with  no  one  will  ever 
know  what  purpose  in  her  heart.     If  it  was  a 


NIGGER  MARTHA'S  WAKE  111 

last  glimmer  of  good,  of  forgiveness,  it  was 
promptly  squelched.  It  was  Sheeny  Rose 
who  opened  the  door. 

"  You  can't  come  in  here,"  she  said  curtly. 
"  You  know  she  hated  you.  She  did  n't  want 
you  to  look  at  her  stiff." 

Cock-eyed  Grace's  face  grew  set  with  anger. 
Her  curses  were  heard  within.  She  threatened 
fight,  but  dropped  it. 

''All  right,"  she  said  as  she  went  down. 
''  I  '11  fix  you,  Sheeny  Rose  !  " 

It  was  in  the  exact  spot  where  Nigger  Mar- 
tha had  sat  and  died  that  Grace  met  her 
enemy  the  night  after  the  funeral.  Lizzie  La 
Blanche,  the  Marine's  girl,  was  there;  Elsie 
Specs,  Little  Mame,  and  Jack  the  Dog,  tough- 
est of  all  the  gii'ls,  who  for  that  reason  had 
earned  the  name  of  ''  Mayor  of  the  Bowery." 
She  brooked  no  rivals.  They  were  all  within 
reach  when  the  two  enemies  met  under  the 
arc  light. 

Cock-eyed  Grace  sounded  the  challenge. 

"Now,  you  little  Sheeny  Rose,"  she  said, 
"  I  'm  goin'  to  do  ye  f er  shuttin'  of  me  out  o' 
Nigger  Martha's  wake." 

With  that  out  came  her  hatpin,  and  she 
made  a  lunge  at  Sheeny  Rose.  The  other 
was  on  her  guard.     Hatpin  in  hand,  she  par- 


112  NIGGER   MARTHA'S  WAKE 

ried  the  thrust  and  lunged  back.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  girls  had  made  a  ring  about  the 
two,  shutting  them  out  of  sight.  Within  it 
the  desperate  women  thrust  and  parried, 
backed  and  squared  off,  leaping  like  tigers 
when  they  saw  an  opening.  Their  hats  had 
fallen  off,  their  hair  was  down,  and  eager 
hate  glittered  in  their  eyes.  It  was  a  battle 
for  life ',  for  there  is  no  dagger  more  deadly 
than  the  hatpin  these  women  caiTy,  chiefly 
as  a  weapon  of  defense  in  the  hour  of 
need. 

They  were  evenly  matched.  Sheeny  Rose 
made  up  in  superior  suppleness  of  limb  for 
the  pent-up  malice  of  the  other.  Grace  aimed 
her  thrusts  at  her  opponent's  face.  She  tried 
to  reach  her  eye.  Once  the  sharp  steel  just 
pricked  Sheeny  Rose's  cheek  and  drew  blood. 
In  the  next  turn  Rose's  hatpin  passed  "within 
a  quarter-inch  of  Grace's  jugular. 

But  the  blow  nearly  threw  her  off  her 
feet,  and  she  was  at  her  enemy's  mercy. 
With  an  evil  oath  the  fiend  thrust  full  at 
her  face  just  as  the  poUceman,  who  had 
come  through  the  crowd  unobserved,  so  in- 
tent was  it  upon  the  fight,  knocked  the  steel 
from  her  hand. 

At  midnight  two  disheveled  hags  with  faces 


NIGGER  MARTHA'S  WAKE  113 

flattened  against  tlie  bars  of  adjoining  cells  in 
the  police  station  were  hurling  sidelong  curses 
at  each  other  and  at  the  maddened  doorman. 
Nigger  Martha's  wake  had  received  its  appro- 
priate and  foreordained  ending. 


A  CHIP  FROM  THE  MAELSTROM 

''  rflHE  cop  just  sceert  her  to  death,  that  's 

A  what  he  done.  For  Gawd's  sake,  boss, 
don't  let  on  I  tole  you." 

The  negro,  stopping  suddenly  in  his  game 
of  craps  in  the  Pell-street  back  yard,  glanced 
up  with  a  look  of  agonized  entreaty.  Discov- 
ering no  such  fell  purpose  in  his  questioner's 
face,  he  added  quickly,  reassured : 

^^  And  if  he  asks  if  you  seed  me  a-playing 
craps,  say  no,  not  on  yer  life,  boss,  wiU  yer  ? " 
And  he  resumed  the  game  where  he  left  off. 

An  hour  before  he  had  seen  Maggie  L^Tich 
die  in  that  hallway,  and  it  was  of  her  he 
spoke.  She  belonged  to  the  tenement  and  to 
Pell  street,  as  he  did  himself.  They  were 
part  of  it  while  they  lived,  with  all  that  that 
implied;  when  they  died,  to  make  part  of  it 
again,  reorganized  and  closing  ranks  in  the 
trench  on  Hart's  Island.     It  is  only  the  Celes- 

114 


A  CHIP  FROM   THE  MAELSTROM      115 

tials  in  Pell  street  who  escape  the  trench. 
The  others  are  booked  for  it  from  the  day 
they  are  pushed  out  from  the  rapids  of  the 
Bowery  into  this  maelstrom  that  sucks  under 
all  it  seizes.  Thenceforward  they  come  to 
the  surface  only  at  intervals  in  the  police 
courts,  each  time  more  forlorn,  but  not  more 
hopeless,  until  at  last  they  disappear  and  are 
heard  of  no  more. 

When  Maggie  Lynch  turned  the  corner  no 
one  there  knows.  The  street  keeps  no  reckon- 
ing, and  it  does  n't  matter.  She  took  her  place 
unchallenged,  and  her  '^character"  was  regis- 
tered in  due  time.  It  was  good.  Even  Pell 
street  has  its  degrees  and  its  standard  of 
perfection.  The  standard's  strong  point  is 
contempt  of  the  Chinese,  who  are  hosts  in 
Pell  street.  Maggie  Lynch  came  to  be  known 
as  homeless,  without  a  man,  though  with  the 
prospects  of  motherhood  approaching,  yet  she 
''had  never  lived  with  a  Chink."  To  Pell 
street  that  was  heroic.  It  would  have  for- 
given all  the  rest,  had  there  been  anything 
to  forgive.  But  there  was  not.  Whatever 
else  may  be,  cant  is  not  among  the  vices  of 
PeU  street. 

And  it  is  well.  Maggie  Lynch  lived  with 
the  Cuffs  on  the  top  floor  of  No.  21  until  the 


116     A  CHIP  FROM   THE  MAELSTROM 

Cuffs  moved.  They  left  an  old  lounge  they 
did  n't  want,  and  Maggie.  Maggie  was  sick, 
and  the  housekeeper  had  no  heart  to  put  her 
ojit.  Heart  sometimes  survives  in  the  slums, 
even  in  Pell  street,  long  after  respectability 
has  been  hopelessly  smothered.  It  provided 
shelter  and  a  bed  for  Maggie  when  her  only 
friends  deserted  her.  In  return  she  did  what 
she  could,  helping  about  the  haU  and  stairs. 
Queer  that  gratitude  should  be  another  of  the 
virtues  the  slum  has  no  power  to  smother, 
though  dive  and  brothel  and  the  scorn  of  the 
good  do  their  best,  working  together. 

There  was  an  old  mattress  that  had  to 
be  burned,  and  Maggie  dragged  it  down  with 
an  effort.  She  took  it  out  in  the  street,  and 
there  set  it  on  fire.  It  bui'ned  and  blazed 
high  in  the  narrow  street.  The  policeman 
saw  the  sheen  in  the  windows  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  way,  and  saw  the  danger  of  it  as 
he  came  around  the  corner.  Maggie  did  not 
notice  him  till  he  was  right  behind  her.  She 
gave  a  great  start  when  he  spoke  to  her. 

"  I  've  a  good  mind  to  lock  you  up  for  this," 
he  said  as  he  stamped  out  the  fii-e.  "  Don't 
you  know  it 's  against  the  law  ? " 

The  negro  heard  it  and  saw  Maggie  stagger 
toward  the  door,  with  her  hand  pressed  upon 


A  CHIP  FROM   THE  MAELSTROM     117 

her  heart,  as  the  policeman  went  away  down  the 
street.    On  the  threshold  she  stopped,  panting. 

"  My  Gawd,  that  cop  frightened  me  !  "  she 
said,  and  sat  down  on  the  door-step. 

A  tenant  who  came  out  saw  that  she  was 
ill,  and  helped  her  into  the  hall.  She  gasped 
once  or  twice,  and  then  lay  back,  dead. 

Word  went  around  to  the  Elizabeth-street 
station,  and  was  sent  on  from  there  with  an 
order  for  the  dead- wagon.  Maggie's  turn  had 
come  for  the  ride  up  the  Sound.  She  was  as 
good  as  checked  off  for  the  Potter's  Field, 
but  Pell  street  made  an  effort  and  came  up 
almost  to  Maggie's  standard. 

Even  while  the  dead-wagon  was  rattling 
down  the  Bowery,  one  of  the  tenants  ran  all 
the  way  to  Henry  street,  where  he  had  heard 
that  Maggie's  father  lived,  and  brought  him 
to  the  police  station.  The  old  man  wiped  his 
eyes  as  he  gazed  upon  his  child,  dead  in  her 
sins. 

"  She  had  a  good  home,"  he  said  to  Captain 
Young.  "  But  she  did  n't  know  it,  and  she 
would  n't  stay.  Send  her  home,  and  I  will 
bury  her  with  her  mother." 

The  Potter's  Field  was  cheated  out  of  a  vic- 
tim, and  by  Pell  street.  But  the  maelstrom 
grinds  on  and  on. 


SARAH  JOYCE'S  HUSBANDS 

POLICEMAN  MULLER  had  run  against  a 
boisterous  crowd  surrounding  a  drunken 
woman  at  Prince  street  and  the  Bowery. 
When  he  joined  the  crowd  it  scattered,  but 
got  together  again  before  it  had  run  half  a 
block,  and  slunk  after  him  and  his  prisoner 
to  the  Mulberry-street  station.  There  Ser- 
geant Woodruff  learned  by  questioning  the 
woman  that  she  was  Mary  Donovan  and  had 
come  down  from  Westchester  to  have  a  holi- 
day. She  had  had  it  without  a  doubt.  The 
sergeant  ordered  her  to  be  locked  up  for 
safe-keeping,  when,  unexpectedly,  objection 
was  made. 

A  small  lot  of  the  crowd  had  picked  up 
courage  to  come  into  the  station  to  see  what 
became  of  the  prisoner.    From  out  of  this,  one 

118 


SARAH  JOYCE'S  HUSBANDS  119 

spoke  up :  "  Don't  lock  that  woman  np ;  she 
is  my  wife." 

*'Eh,"  said  the  sergeant,  ^'and  who  are 
you?" 

The  man  said  he  was  George  Reilly  and  a 
salesman.  The  prisoner  had  given  her  name 
as  Mary  Donovan  and  said  she  was  single. 
The  sergeant  drew  Mr.  Reilly's  attention  to 
the  street  door,  which  was  there  for  his  ac- 
commodation, but  he  did  not  take  the  hint. 
He  became  so  abusive  that  he,  too,  was  locked 
up,  still  protesting  that  the  woman  was  his 
wife. 

She  had  gone  on  her  way  to  EHzabeth 
street,  where  there  is  a  matron,  to  be  locked 
up  there;  and  the  objections  of  Mr.  Reilly 
ha\T.ng  been  silenced  at  last,  peace  was  de- 
scending once  more  upon  the  station-house, 
when  the  door  was  opened,  and  a  man  with 
a  swagger  entered. 

"  Got  that  woman  locked  up  here  ? "  he  de- 
manded. 

"What  woman?"  asked  the  sergeant,  look- 
ing up. 

"  Her  what  Muller  took  in." 

"Well,"  said   the   sergeant,  looking   over 
the  desk,  "what  of  her?" 
'  "I  want  her  outj  she  is  my  wife.     She—" 


120  SARAH  JOYCE'S  HUSBANDS 

The  sergeant  rang  his  bell.  "Here,  lock 
this  man  up  with  that  woman's  other  hus- 
band," he  said,  pointing  to  the  stranger. 

The  fellow  ran  out  just  in  time,  as  the  door- 
man made  a  grab  for  him.  The  sergeant 
drew  a  tired  breath  and  picked  up  the  ruler 
to  make  a  red  line  in  his  blotter.  There 
was  a  brisk  step,  a  rap,  and  a  young  fellow 
stood  in  the  open  door. 

*'  Say,  serg,"  he  began. 

The  sergeant  reached  with  his  left  hand  for 
the  inkstand,  while  his  right  clutched  the 
ruler.    He  never  took  his  eyes  off  the  stranger. 

"Say,"  wheedled  he,  glancing  around  and 
seeing  no  trap,  "serg,  I  say:  that  woman 
w'at  's  locked  up,  she  's— " 

"  She  's  what  ? "  asked  the  sergeant,  getting 
the  range  as  well  as  he  could. 

"  My  wife,"  said  the  fellow. 

There  was  a  bang,  the  slamming  of  a  door, 
and  the  room  was  empty.  The  doorman  came 
running  in,  looked  out,  and  up  and  down  the 
street.  But  nothing  was  to  be  seen.  There 
is  no  record  of  what  became  of  the  third 
husband  of  Mary  Donovan. 

The  first  slept  serenely  in  the  jail.  The 
woman  herself,  when  she  saw  the  iron  bars 
in  the  Elizabeth-street  station,  fell  into  hys- 


SARAH  JOYCE'S  HUSBANDS  121 

terics  and  was  taken  to  the  Hudson  Street 
Hospital. 

Reilly  was  arraigned  in  the  Tombs  Police 
Court  in  the  morning.  He  paid  his  fine  and 
left,  protesting  that  he  was  her  only  husband. 

He  had  not  been  gone  ten  minutes  when 
Claimant  No.  4  entered. 

'^  Was  Sarah  Joyce  brought  here  ? "  he  asked 
Clerk  Betts. 

The  clerk  could  n't  find  the  name. 

^^  Look  for  Mary  Donovan,"  said  No.  4. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  clerk. 

*'  I  am  Sarah's  husband,"  was  the  answer. 

Clerk  Betts  smiled,  and  told  the  man  the 
story  of  the  other  three. 

"  Well,  I  am  blamed,"  he  said. 


THE  CAT  TOOK  THE  KOSHER 
MEAT 

THE  tenement  No.  76  Madison  street  had 
been  for  some  time  scandalized  by  the 
hoidenish  ways  of  Rose  Baruch,  the  little 
cloakmaker  on  the  top  floor.  Rose  was  sev- 
enteen, and  boarded  with  her  mother  in  the 
Pincus  family.  But  for  her  harum-scarum 
ways  she  might,  in  the  opinion  of  the  tene- 
ment, be  a  nice  girl  and  some  day  a  good 
wife ;  but  these  were  unbearable. 

For  the  tenement  is  a  great  working  hive 
in  which  nothing  has  value  unless  exchange- 
able for  gold.  Rose's  animal  spirits,  which 
long  hours  and  low  wages  had  no  power  to 
curb,  were  exchangeable  only  for  wrath  in 
the  tenement.  Her  noisy  feet  on  the  stairs 
when  she  came  home  woke  up  all  the  tenants, 
and  made  them  swear  at  the  loss  of  the  pre- 
cious moments  of  sleep  which  were  their  re- 

122 


THE  CAT  TOOK  THE  KOSHER  MEAT     123 

serve  capital.  Rose  was  so  Americanized, 
they  said  impatiently  among  themselves,  that 
nothing  could  be  done  with  her. 

Perhaps  they  were  mistaken.  Perhaps 
Rose's  stout  refusal  to  be  subdued  even  by 
the  tenement  was  their  hope,  as  it  was  her  cap- 
ital. Perhaps  her  spiteful  tread  upon  the 
stairs  heralded  the  coming  protest  of  the  free- 
born  American  against  slavery,  industrial  or 
otherwise,  in  which  their  day  of  deliverance 
was  dawning.  It  may  be  so.  They  did  n't 
see  it.  How  should  they?  They  were  not 
Americanized ;  not  yet. 

However  that  might  be.  Rose  came  to  the 
end  that  was  to  be  expected.  The  judgment 
of  the  tenement  was,  for  the  time,  borne  out 
by  experience.     This  was  the  way  of  it : 

Rose's  mother  had  bought  several  pounds 
of  kosher  meat  and  put  it  into  the  ice-box — 
that  is  to  say,  on  the  window-sill  of  their 
fifth-floor  flat.  Other  ice-box  these  East-Side 
sweaters'  tenements  have  none.  And  it  does 
well  enough  in  cold  weather,  unless  the  cat 
gets  around,  or,  as  it  happened  in  this  case, 
it  slides  off  and  falls  down.  Rose's  breakfast 
and  dinner  disappeared  down  the  air-shaft, 
seventy  feet  or  more,  at  10 :  30  p.  m. 

There  was  a  family  consultation  as  to  what 


124  THE  CAT  TOOK  THE  KOSHER  MEAT 

should  be  done.  It  was  late,  and  everybody 
was  in  bed,  but  Rose  declared  berseK  equal 
to  the  rousing  of  the  tenants  in  the  first 
floor  rear,  through  whose  window  she  could 
climb  into  the  shaft  for  the  meat.  She  had 
done  it  before  for  a  nickel.  Enough  said. 
An  expedition  set  out  at  once  from  the  top 
floor  to  recover  the  meat.  Mrs.  Baruch, 
Rose,  and  Jake,  the  boarder,  went  in  a  body. 

Arrived  before  the  Knauff  family's  flat  on 
the  ground  floor,  they  opened  proceedings  by 
a  vigorous  attack  on  the  door.  The  Knauffs 
woke  up  in  a  fright,  believing  that  the  house 
was  full  of  burglars.  They  were  stirring  to 
barricade  the  door,  when  they  recognized 
Rose's  voice  and  were  calmed.  Let  in,  the 
expedition  explained  matters,  and  was  grudg- 
ingly allowed  to  take  a  look  out  of  the  window 
in  the  air-shaft.  Yes !  there  was  the  meat,  as 
yet  safe  from  rats.     The  thing  was  to  get  it. 

The  boarder  tried  first,  but  crawled  back 
frightened.  He  could  n't  reach  it.  Rose 
jerked  him  impatiently  away. 

"  Leg  go !  "  she  said.  "  I  can  do  it.  I  was 
there  wunst.     You  're  no  good." 

And  she  bent  over  the  window-sill,  reaching 
down  until  her  toes  barely  touched  the  floor, 
when  all  of  a  sudden,  before  they  could  grab 


THE  CAT  TOOK  THE  KOSHER  MEAT     125 

her  skirts,  over  she  went,  heels  over  head, 
down  the  shaft,  and  disappeared. 

The  shrieks  of  the  Knauffs,  of  Mrs.  Baruch, 
and  of  Jake,  the  boarder,  were  echoed  from 
below.  Rose's  voice  rose  in  pain  and  in  bit- 
ter lamentation  from  the  bottom  of  the  shaft. 
She  had  fallen  fully  fifteen  feet,  and  in  the 
fall  had  hurt  her  back  badly,  if,  indeed,  she 
had  not  injured  herself  beyond  repair.  Her 
cries  suggested  nothing  less.  They  filled  the 
tenement,  rising  to  every  floor  and  appealing 
at  every  bedroom  window. 

In  a  minute  the  whole  building  was  astir 
from  cellar  to  roof.  A  dozen  heads  were 
thrust  out  of  every  window,  and  answering 
wails  carried  messages  of  helpless  sympathy 
to  the  once  so  unpopular  Rose.  Upon  this 
concert  of  sorrow  the  police  broke  in  with 
anxious  inquuy  as  to  what  was  the  matter. 

When  they  found  out,  a  second  relief  ex- 
pedition was  organized.  It  reached  Rose 
through  the  basement  coal-bin,  and  she  was 
carried  out  and  sent  to  the  Gouverneur  Hos- 
pital. There  she  lies,  unable  to  move,  and 
the  tenement  wonders  what  is  amiss  that  it 
has  lost  its  old  spirits.  It  has  not  even  any- 
thing left  to  swear  at. 

The  cat  took  the  kosher  meat. 


FIRE  IN  THE  BARRACKS 

THE  rush  and  roar,  the  blaze  and  the 
wild  panic,  of  a  great  fire  filled  Twenty- 
third  street.  Helmeted  men  stormed  and 
swore ;  horses  tramped  and  reared ;  crpng 
women,  hurrying  hither  and  thither,  stumbled 
over  squirming  hose  on  street  and  sidewalk. 

The  throbbing  of  a  dozen  pumping-engines 
merged  all  other  sounds  in  its  frantic  appeal 
for  haste.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  seven  red- 
shirted  men  knelt  beside  a  heap  of  trunks, 
hastily  thrown  up  as  if  for  a  breastwork,  and 
prayed  fervently  with  bared  heads. 

Firemen  and  policemen  stumbled  up  against 
them  with  angry  words,  stopped,  stared,  and 
passed  silently  by.  The  fleeing  crowd  halted 
and  fell  back.  The  rush  and  the  roar  swirled 
to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  leaving  the  little 
band  as  if  in  an  eddy,  untouched  and  serene, 

126 


FIRE   IN   THE   BARRACKS  127 

with  the  glow  of  the  fire  upon  it  and  the  stars 
paling  overhead. 

The  seven  were  the  Swedish  Salvation 
Army.  Their  barracks  were  burning  up  in 
a  blast  of  fii'e  so  sudden  and  so  fierce  that 
scant  time  was  left  to  save  life  and  goods. 

From  the  tenements  next  door  men  and 
women  dragged  bundles  and  feather-beds, 
choking  stairs  and  halls,  and  shi'ieking  madly 
to  be  let  out.  The  police  struggled  angrily 
with  the  torrent.  The  lodgers  in  the  Holly- 
Tree  Inn,  who  had  nothing  to  save,  ran  for 
their  lives. 

In  the  station-house  behind  the  barracks 
they  were  hastily  clearing  the  prison.  The 
last  man  had  hardly  passed  out  of  his  cell 
when,  with  a  deafening  crash,  the  toppling 
wall  fell  upon  and  smashed  the  roof  of  the 
jail. 

Fire-bells  rang  in  every  street  as  engines 
rushed  from  north  and  south.  A  general 
alarm  had  called  out  the  reserves.  Every  hy- 
drant for  blocks  around  was  tapped.  Engine 
crews  climbed  upon  the  track  of  the  elevated 
road,  picketed  the  surrounding  tenements, 
and  stood  their  ground  on  top  of  the  police 
station. 

Up  there  two  crews  labored  with  a  Siam- 


128  FIRE  IN  THE  BARRACKS 

ese  joint  liose  throwing  a  stream  as  big  as  a 
man's  tliigh.  It  got  away  from  them,  and 
for  a  while  there  was  panic  and  a  struggle 
up  on  the  heights  as  well  as  in  the  street. 
The  throbbing  hose  bounded  over  the  roof, 
thrashing  right  and  left,  and  flinging  about 
the  men  who  endeavored  to  pin  it  down  like 
half-drowned  kittens.  It  struck  the  coping, 
knocked  it  off,  and  the  resistless  stream 
washed  brick  and  stone  down  into  the  yard 
as  upon  the  wave  of  a  mighty  flood. 

Amid  the  fright  and  uproar  the  seven  alone 
were  calm.  The  sun  rose  upon  their  little 
band  perched  upon  the  pile  of  trunks,  vic- 
torious and  defiant.  It  shone  upon  Old  Glory 
and  the  Salvation  Army's  flag  floating  from 
their  improvised  fort,  and  upon  an  ample 
lake,  sprung  up  within  an  hour  where  yes- 
terday there  was  a  vacant  sunken  lot.  The 
fire  was  out,  the  firemen  going  home. 

The  lodgers  in  the  Holly-Tree  Inn,  of  whom 
there  is  one  for  every  day  in  the  year,  looked 
upon  the  sudden  expanse  of  water,  shivered, 
and  went  in.  The  tenants  returned  to  their 
homes.  The  fright  was  over  with  the  dark- 
ness. 


A  WAR  ON  THE  GOATS 


WAR  has  been  declared  in  HelPs  Kitchen. 
An  indignant  public  opinion  demands 
to  have  ^'  something  done  ag'in'  them  goats," 
and  there  is  alarm  at  the  river  end  of  the 
street.  A  public  opinion  in  Hell's  Kitchen 
that  demands  anything  besides  schooners  of 
mixed  ale  is  a  sign.  Surer  than  a  college 
settlement  and  a  sociological  canvass,  it  fore- 
tells the  end  of  the  slum.  Sebastopol,  the 
rocky  fastness  of  the  gang  that  gave  the  place 
its  bad  name,  was  razed  only  the  other  day, 
and  now  the  police  have  been  set  on  the  goats. 
Cause  enough  for  alarm. 

A  reconnaissance  in  force  by  the  enemy 
showed  some  foundation  for  the  claim  that 
the  goats  owned  the  block.  Thirteen  were 
found  foraging  in  the  gutters,  standing  upon 
trucks,  or  calmly  dozing  in  doorways.  They 
9  129 


130  A  WAR   ON   THE   GOATS 

evinced  no  particularly  hostile  disposition,  but 
a  marked  desire  to  know  the  business  of  every 
chance  caller  in  the  block.  This  caused  a 
passing  unpleasantness  between  one  big  white 
goat  and  the  janitress  of  the  tenement  on 
the  corner.  Being  crowded  up  against  the 
wall  by  the  animal,  bent  on  exploring  her 
pockets,  she  beat  it  off  with  her  scrubbiug-pail 
and  mop.  The  goat,  thus  dismissed,  joined 
a  horse  at  the  curb  in  apparently  innocent 
meditation,  but  with  one  leering  eye  fixed 
back  over  its  shoulder  upon  the  housekeeper 
setting  out  an  ash-barrel. 

Her  back  was  barely  turned  when  it  was  in 
the  barrel,  with  head  and  fore  feet  exploring 
its  depths.  The  door  of  the  tenement  opened 
upon  the  housekeeper  trundling  another 
barrel  just  as  the  first  one  fell  and  rolled 
across  the  sidewalk,  -with,  the  goat  capering 
about.  Then  was  the  air  filled  with  bad  lan- 
guage and  a  broomstick  and  a  goat  for  a 
moment,  and  the  woman  was  left  shouting 
her  wi'ongs. 

^'  What  de  divil  good  is  dem  goats  anyhow  ?" 
she  said,  panting.  "  There  ^s  no  housekeeper 
in  de  United  Shtates  can  watch  de  ash-cans 
wid  dem  divil's  imps  around.  They  near 
killed  an  Eyetalian  child  the  other  day,  and 


A  WAR  ON   THE  GOATS  131 

two  of  them  got  basted  in  de  neck  wlien  de 
goats  follied  dem  and  did  n't  get  nothing. 
That  big  white  one  o'  Tim's,  he  's  the  worst 
in  de  lot,  and  he  's  got  only  one  horn,  too." 

This  wicked  and  unsymmetrical  animal 
is  denounced  for  its  malice  throughout  the 
block  by  even  the  defenders  of  the  goats. 
Singularly  enough,  he  cannot  be  located,  and 
neither  can  Tim.  If  the  scouting-party  has 
better  luck  and  can  seize  this  wretched  beast, 
half  the  campaign  may  be  over.  It  will  be 
accepted  as  a  sacrifice  by  one  side,  and  the 
other  is  willing  to  give  it  up. 

Mrs.  Shallock  Hves  in  a  crazy  old  frame 
house,  over  a  saloon.  Her  kitchen  is  ap- 
proached by  a  sort  of  hen-ladder,  a  foot  wide, 
which  terminates  in  a  balcony,  the  whole  of 
which  was  occupied  by  a  big  gray  goat.  There 
was  not  room  for  the  police  inquisitor  and 
the  goat  too,  and  the  former  had  to  wait  till 
the  animal  had  come  off  his  perch.  Mrs. 
Shallock  is  a  widow.  A  load  of  anxiety  and 
concern  overspread  her  motherly  countenance 
when  she  heard  of  the  trouble. 

''Are  they  after  dem  goats  again?"  she 
said.  ''  Sarah !  Leho  !  come  right  here,  an' 
don't  you  go  in  the  street  again.  Excuse  me, 
sor !  but  it 's  all  because  one  of  dem  knocked 


132  A  WAR  ON   THE  GOATS 

down  an  old  woman  tliat  used  to  give  it  a 
paper  every  day.  She  is  the  mother  of  the 
blind  newsboy  around  on  the  avenue,  an'  she 
used  to  feed  an  old  paper  to  him  every  night. 
So  he  follied  her.  That  night  she  did  n't  have 
any,  an'  when  he  stuck  his  nose  in  her  basket 
an'  did  n't  find  any,  he  knocked  her  down, 
an'  she  bruk  her  arm." 

Whether  it  was  the  one-horned  goat  that 
thus  insisted  upon  his  sporting  extra  does  not 
appear.     Probably  it  was. 

"  There  's  neighbors  lives  there  has  got  'em 
on  floors,"  Mrs.  Shallock  kept  on.  "I  'm 
paying  taxes  here,  an'  I  think  it 's  my  privi- 
lege to  have  one  little  goat." 

"  I  just  wish  they  'd  take  'em,"  broke  in  the 
widow's  buxom  daughter,  who  had  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  combing  her  hair.  "They 
goes  up  in  the  hall  and  knocks  on  the  door 
with  their  horns  all  night.  There  's  sixteen 
dozen  of  them  on  the  stoop,  if  there  's  one. 
What  good  are  they  ?  Let 's  sell  'em  to  the 
butcher,  mamaj  he  '11  buy  'em  for  mutton, 
the  way  he  did  Bill  Buckley's.  You  know 
right  well  he  did." 

"  They  ain't  much  good,  that 's  a  fact," 
mused  the  widow.  "  But  yere  's  Leho ;  she 's 
follying  me  around  just  like  a  child.     She  is 


A  WAR  ON   THE  GOATS  133 

a  regular  pet,  is  Lelio.  We  got  her  from  Mr. 
Lee,  who  is  dead,  and  we  called  her  after  him, 
Leho  [Leo].  Take  Sarah  5  but  Leho,  little 
Leho,  let 's  keep." 

Leho  stuck  her  head  in  through  the  front 
door  and  belied  her  name.  If  the  widow  keeps 
her,  another  campaign  will  shortly  have  to  be 
begun  in  Forty-sixth  street.  There  will  be 
more  goats  where  Leho  is. 

Mr.  Cleary  lives  in  a  rear  tenement  and 
has  only  one  goat.  It  belongs,  he  says,  to 
his  little  boy,  and  is  no  good  except  to  amuse 
him.  Minnie  is  her  name,  and  she  once  had 
a  mate.  When  it  was  sold,  the  boy  cried  so 
much  that  he  was  sick  for  two  weeks.  Mr. 
Cleary  could  n't  think  of  parting  with  Minnie. 

Neither  will  Mr.  Lennon,  in  the  next  yard, 
give  up  his.  He  owns  the  stable,  he  says,  and 
axes  no  odds  of  anybody.  His  goat  is  some 
good  anyhow,  for  it  gives  milk  for  his  tea. 
Says  his  wife,  "  Many  is  the  dime  it  has  saved 
us."  There  are  two  goats  in  Mr.  Lennon's 
yard,  one  perched  on  top  of  a  shed  surveying 
the  yard,  the  other  engaged  in  chewing  at  a 
buck-saw  that  hangs  on  the  fence. 

Mrs.  Buckley  does  not  know  how  many 
goats  she  has.  A  glance  at  the  bigger  of  the 
two  that  are  stabled  at  the  entrance  to  the 


134:  A  WAR  ON  THE  GOATS 

tenement  explains  her  doubts,  which  are  tem- 
porary. Mrs.  Buckley  says  that  her  husband 
'^  generally  sells  them  away,"  meaning  the 
kids,  presumably  to  the  butcher  for  mutton. 

"  Hey,  Jenny !  "  she  says,  stroking  the  big 
one  at  the  door.  Jenny  eyes  the  visitor  calmly, 
and  chews  an  old  newspaper.  She  has  two 
horns. 

"She  ain't  as  bad  as  they  lets  on,"  says 
Mrs.  Buckley. 

The  scouting  party  reports  the  new  public 
opinion  of  the  Kitchen  to  be  of  healthy  but 
alien  growth,  as  yet  without  roots  in  the  soil 
strong  enough  to  stand  the  shock  of  a  gen- 
eral raid  on  the  goats.  They  recommend  as 
a  present  concession  the  seizure  of  the  one- 
horned  Billy  that  seems  to  have  no  friends 
on  the  block,  if  indeed  he  belongs  there,  and 
an  ambush  is  being  laid  accordingly. 


ROVEE'S  LAST  FIGHT 

THE  little  village  of  Valley  Stream  nestles 
peacefully  among  the  woods  and  meadows 
of  Long  Island.  The  days  and  the  years  roll 
by  uneventfully  within  its  quiet  precincts. 
Nothing  more  exciting  than  the  arrival  of  a 
party  of  fishermen  from  the  city,  on  a  vain 
hunt  for  perch  in  the  ponds  that  lie  hidden 
among  its  groves  and  feed  the  Brooklyn  water- 
works, troubles  the  every-day  routine  of  the 
village.  Two  great  railroad  wrecks  are  re- 
membered thereabouts,  but  these  are  already 
ancient  history.  Only  the  oldest  inhabitants 
know  of  the  earlier  one.  There  has  n't  been 
as  much  as  a  sudden  death  in  the  town  since, 
and  the  constable  and  chief  of  police— prob- 
ably one  and  the  same  person— have  n't 
turned  an  honest  or  dishonest  penny  in  the 

135 


136  ROVER'S  LAST   FIGHT 

whole  course  of  their  official  existence.  All 
of  which  is  as  it  ought  to  be. 

But  at  last  something  occurred  that  ought 
not  to  have  been.  The  village  was  aroused 
at  daybreak  by  the  intelligence  that  a  robbery 
had  been  committed  overnight,  and  a  murder. 
The  house  of  Gabriel  Dodge,  a  well-to-do 
farmer,  had  been  sacked  by  thieves,  who  left 
in  their  trail  the  farmer's  murdered  dog. 
Rover  was  a  collie,  large  for  his  kind,  and 
quite  as  noisy  as  the  rest  of  them.  He  had 
been  left  as  an  outside  guard,  according  to 
Farmer  Dodge's  awkward  practice.  Inside, 
he  might  have  been  of  use  by  alarming  the 
folks  when  the  thieves  tried  to  get  in.  But 
they  had  only  to  fear  his  bark  j  his  bite  was 
harmless. 

The  whole  of  Valley  Stream  gathered  at 
Farmer  Dodge's  house  to  watch,  awe-struck, 
the  mysterious  movements  of  the  police  force 
as  it  went  tiptoeing  about,  peeping  into  cor- 
ners, secretly  examining  tracks  in  the  mud, 
and  squinting  suspiciously  at  the  brogans  of 
the  bystanders.  When  it  had  all  been  gone 
through,  this  record  of  facts  bearing  on  the 
case  was  made : 

Rover  was  dead. 

He  had  apparently  been  smothered. 


KO^^R'S  LAST   FIGHT  137 

With  the  hand,  not  a  rope. 

There  was  a  ladder  set  up  against  the 
window  of  the  spare  bedroom. 

That  it  had  not  been  there  before  was 
evidence  that  the  thieves  had  set  it  up. 

The  window  was  open,  and  they  had  gone  in. 

Several  watches,  some  good  clothes,  sundiy 
articles  of  jewehy,  all  worth  some  six  or  seven 
hundred  dollars,  were  missing  and  could  not 
be  found. 

In  conclusion,  the  constable  put  on  record 
his  belief  that  the  thieves  who  had  smothered 
the  dog  and  set  up  the  ladder  had  taken  the 
propert3\ 

The  solid  citizens  of  the  village  sat  upon 
the  verdict  in  the  store,  solemnly  considered 
it,  and  agreed  that  it  was  so.  This  point 
settled,  there  was  left  only  the  other :  Who 
were  the  thieves?  The  solid  citizens  by  a 
unanimous  decision  concluded  that  Inspector 
Byrnes  was  the  man  to  tell  them. 

So  they  came  over  to  New  York  and  laid 
the  matter  before  him,  with  a  mental  diagram 
of  the  \illage,  the  house,  the  dog,  and  the 
ladder  at  the  window.  There  was  just  the 
suspicion  of  a  twinkle  in  the  corner  of  the 
inspector's  eye  as  he  listened  gravely  and 
then  said ; 


138  ROVER'S  LAST   FIGHT 

''  It  was  the  spare  bedroom,  was  n't  it  ? " 

^'The  spare  bedroom,"  said  the  committee, 
in  one  breath. 

"  The  only  one  in  the  house  ? "  queried  the 
inspector,  further. 

"  The  only  one,"  responded  the  echo. 

"H'm!"  pondered  the  inspector.  ''You 
keep  hands  on  youi*  farm,  Mr.  Dodge  ? " 

Mr.  Dodge  did. 

"  Sleep  in  the  house  ? " 

''Yes." 

"  Discharged  any  one  lately  ? " 

The  committee  rose  as  one  man,  and,  staring 
at  each  other  with  bulging  eyes,  said  "  Jake  !  " 
all  at  once. 

"  Jakey,  b'  gosh  !  "  repeated  the  constable 
to  himself,  kicking  his  own  shins  softly  as  he 
tugged  at  his  beard.     "  Jake,  by  thunder !  " 

Jake  was  a  boy  of  eighteen,  who  had  been 
employed  by  the  farmer  to  do  chores.  He 
was  shiftless,  and  a  week  or  two  before  had 
been  sent  away  in  disgrace.  He  had  gone  no 
one  knew  whither. 

The  committee  told  the  inspector  all  about 
Jake,  gave  him  a  minute  description  of  him,— 
of  his  ways,  his  gait,  and  his  clothes, — and  went 
home  feeling  that  they  had  been  wondrous 
smart  in  putting  so  sharp  a  man  on  the  track 


ROVER'S  LAST   FIGHT  139 

he  would  never  have  thought  of  if  they  had  n't 
mentioned  Jake's  name.  All  he  had  to  do 
now  was  to  follow  it  to  the  end,  and  let  them 
know  when  he  had  reached  it.  And  as  these 
good  men  had  prophesied,  even  so  it  came  to 
pass. 

Detectives  of  the  inspector's  staff  were  put 
on  the  trail.  They  followed  it  from  the  Long 
Island  pastures  across  the  East  River  to  the 
Bowery,  and  there  into  one  of  the  cheap  lodg- 
ing-houses where  thieves  are  turned  out  ready- 
made  while  you  wait.     There  they  found  Jake. 

They  did  n't  hail  him  at  once,  or  clap  him 
into  irons,  as  the  constable  from  Valley  Stream 
would  have  done.  They  let  him  alone  and 
watched  awhile  to  see  what  he  was  doing. 
And  the  thing  that  they  found  him  doing  was 
just  what  they  expected  :  he  was  herding  with 
thieves.  When  they  had  thoroughly  fastened 
this  companionship  upon  the  lad,  they  arrested 
the  band.     They  were  three. 

They  had  not  been  locked  up  many  hours 
at  Headquarters  before  the  inspector  sent  for 
Jake.  He  told  him  he  knew  all  about  his  dis- 
missal by  Farmer  Dodge,  and  asked  him  what 
he  had  done  to  the  old  man.  Jake  blui'ted  out 
hotly,  '''■  Nothin',"  and  betrayed  such  feeling 
that  his  questioner  soon  made  him  admit  that 


140  ROVER'S  LAST  FIGHT 

he  was  "  sore  on  the  boss."  From  that  to  tell- 
ing the  whole  story  of  the  robbery  was  only 
a  little  way,  easy  to  travel  in  such  company 
as  Jake  was  in  then.  He  told  how  he  had 
come  to  New  York,  angry  enough  to  do  any- 
thing, and  had  "  struck ''  the  Bowery.  Struck, 
too,  his  two  friends,  not  the  only  two  of  that 
kind  who  loiter  about  that  thoroughfare. 

To  them  he  told  his  story  while  waiting  in 
the  "hotel''  for  something  to  turn  up,  and 
they  showed  him  a  way  to  get  square  with  the 
old  man  for  what  he  had  done  to  him.  The 
farmer  had  money  and  property  he  would  hate 
to  lose.  Jake  knew  the  lay  of  the  land,  and 
could  steer  them  straight  5  they  would  take 
care  of  the  rest.     "  See !  "  said  they. 

Jake  saw,  and  the  sight  tempted  him.  But 
in  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  also  Rover  and  heard 
him  bark.     How  could  he  be  managed  ? 

"He  will  come  to  me  if  I  call  him,"  pon- 
dered Jake,  while  his  two  companions  sat 
watching  his  face,  "  but  you  may  have  to  kill 
him.     Poor  Rover !  " 

"You  call  the  dog  and  leave  him  to  me," 
said  the  oldest  thief,  and  shut  his  teeth  hard. 
And  so  it  was  arranged. 

That  night  the  three  went  out  on  the  last 
train,  and  hid  in  the  woods  down  by  the  gate- 


ROVER'S   LAST   FIGHT  141 

keeper's  house  at  the  pond,  until  the  last  light 
had  gone  out  in  the  \T.llage  and  it  was  fast 
asleep.  Then  they  crept  up  by  a  back  way  to 
Farmer  Dodge's  house.  As  expected,  Rover 
came  bounding  out  at  theii-  approach,  barking 
fiu'iously.     It  was  Jake's  tiu-n  then. 

"Rover,"  he  called  softly,  and  whistled. 
The  dog  stopped  barking  and  came  on,  wag- 
ging his  tail,  but  still  growling  ominously  as 
he  got  scent  of  the  strange  men. 

'^  Rover,  poor  Rover,"  said  Jake,  stroking  his 
shaggy  fur  and  feeling  like  the  guilty  wi-etch 
he  was ;  for  just  then  the  hand  of  Pf eiffer,  the 
thief,  grabbed  the  throat  of  the  faithful  beast 
in  a  grip  as  of  an  iron  vise,  and  he  had  barked 
his  last  bark.  Struggle  as  he  might,  he  could 
not  free  himself  or  breathe,  while  Jake,  the 
treacherous  Jake,  held  his  legs.  And  so  he 
died,  fighting  for  his  master  and  his  home. 

In  the  morning  the  ladder  at  the  open  win- 
dow and  poor  Rover  dead  in  the  yard  told  of 
the  drama  of  the  night. 

The  committee  of  farmers  came  over  and 
took  Jake  home,  after  congratulating  Inspec- 
tor B}Tnes  on  having  so  intelligently  followed 
their  directions  in  hunting  down  the  thieves. 
The  inspector  shook  hands  with  them  and 
smiled. 


WHEN  THE   LETTEE  CAME 

TO-MORROW  it  will  come,"  Godfrey 
Krueger  had  said  that  night  to  his  land- 
lord. "To-morrow  it  will  surely  come,  and 
then  I  shall  have  money.  Soon  I  shall  be 
rich,  richer  than  yon  can  think." 

And  the  landlord  of  the  Forsyth-street  tene- 
ment, who  in  his  heart  liked  the  gray-haired  in- 
ventor, but  who  had  rooms  to  let,  grumbled 
something  about  a  to-morrow  that  never  came. 

''  Oh,  but  it  will  come,"  said  Krueger,  turning 
on  the  stairs  and  shading  the  lamp  with  his 
hand,  the  better  to  see  his  landlord's  good- 
natured  face  J  "  you  know  the  application  has 
been  advanced.  It  is  bound  to  be  granted, 
and  to-night  I  shall  finish  my  ship." 

Now,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  room  at  his  work, 
fitting,  shaping,  and  whittling  with  restless 
hands,  he  had  to  admit  to  himself  that  it  was 

142 


WHEN   THE  LETTER  CAME  143 

time  it  came.  Two  whole  days  lie  had  lived 
on  a  crust,  and  he  was  starving.  He  had 
worked  and  waited  thirteen  hard  years  for  the 
success  that  had  more  than  once  been  almost 
within  his  gi'asp,  only  to  elude  it  again.  It 
had  never  seemed  nearer  and  surer  than  now, 
and  there  was  need  of  it.  He  had  come  to  the 
jumping-off  place.  All  his  money  was  gone, 
to  the  last  cent,  and  his  application  for  a  pen- 
sion hung  fire  in  Washington  unaccountably. 
It  had  been  advanced  to  the  last  stage,  and 
word  that  it  had  been  granted  might  be  re- 
ceived any  day.  But  the  days  slipped  by  and 
no  word  came.  For  two  days  he  had  lived  on 
faith  and  a  crust,  but  they  were  giving  out 
together.     If  only— 

Well,  when  it  did  come,  what  with  his  back 
pay  for  all  those  years,  he  would  have  the 
means  to  build  his  ship,  and  hunger  and  want 
would  be  forgotten.  He  should  have  enough. 
And  the  world  would  know  that  Godfrey 
Krueger  was  not  an  idle  crank. 

"  In  six  months  I  shall  cross  the  ocean  to 
Europe  in  twenty  hours  in  my  air-ship,"  he  had 
said  in  showing  the  landlord  his  models,  '^  with 
as  many  as  want  to  go.  Then  I  shaU  become 
a  millionaire  and  shall  make  you  one,  too." 
And  the  landlord  had  heaved  a  sigh  at  the 


144  WHEN  THE  LETTER  CAME 

thought  of  his  twenty-seven  dollars,  and 
doubtingly  wished  it  might  be  so. 

Weak  and  famished,  Krueger  bent  to  his  all 
but  finished  task.  Before  morning  he  should 
know  that  it  would  work  as  he  had  planned. 
There  remained  only  to  fit  the  last  parts  to- 
gether. The  idea  of  building  an  air-ship  had 
come  to  him  while  he  lay  dying  with  scurvy, 
as  they  thought,  in  a  Confederate  prison,  and 
he  had  never  abandoned  it.  He  had  been  a 
teacher  and  a  student,  and  was  a  trained 
mathematician.  There  could  be  no  flaw  in 
his  calculations.  He  had  worked  them  out 
again  and  again.  The  energy  developed  by 
his  plan  was  great  enough  to  float  a  ship 
capable  of  carrying  almost  any  burden,  and 
of  directing  it  against  the  strongest  head 
winds.  Now,  upon  the  threshold  of  success, 
he  was  awaiting  merely  the  long-delayed 
pension  to  carry  his  dream  into  life.  To- 
morrow would  bring  it,  and  with  it  an  end  to 
all  his  waiting  and  suffering. 

One  after  another  the  lights  went  out  in  the 
tenement.  Only  the  one  in  the  inventor's  room 
burned  steadily  through  the  night.  The  police- 
man on  the  beat  noticed  the  lighted  window, 
and  made  a  mental  note  of  the  fact  that  some 
one  was  sick.  Once  during  the  early  hours 
he  stopped  short  to  listen.     Upon  the  morning 


WHEN   THE  LETTER  CAME  145 

breeze  was  borne  a  muffled  sound,  as  of  a  dis- 
tant explosion.  But  all  was  quiet  again,  and 
he  went  on,  thinking  that  his  senses  had  de- 
ceived him.  The  dawn  came  in  the  eastern 
sky,  and  with  it  the  stir  that  attends  the 
awakening  of  another  day.  The  lamp  burned 
steadily  yet  behind  the  dim  window-pane. 

The  milkmen  came,  and  the  push-cart 
criers.  The  policeman  was  relieved,  and  an- 
other took  his  place.  Lastly  came  the  mail- 
carrier  with  a  large  official  envelop  marked, 
"  Pension  Bureau,  Washington."  He  shouted 
up  the  stairway : 

"  Krueger !     Letter !  " 
The  landlord  came  to  the  door  and  was 
glad.     So  it  had  come,  had  it  ? 

"  Run,  Emma,"  he  said  to  his  little  daugh- 
ter, ''  run  and  tell  Mr.  Godfrey  his  letter  has 
come." 

The  child  skipped  up  the  steps  gleefully. 
She  knocked  at  the  inventor's  door,  but  no 
answer  came.  It  was  not  locked,  and  she 
pushed  it  open.  The  little  lamp  smoked  yet 
on  the  table.  The  room  was  strewn  with 
broken  models  and  torn  papers  that  littered 
the  floor.  Something  there  frightened  the 
child.  She  held  to  the  banisters  and  called 
faintly : 

''  Papa !     Oh,  papa !  " 

10 


146  WHEN  THE  LETTER  CAME 

They  went  in  together  on  tiptoe  without 
knowing  why,  the  postman  with  the  big  official 
letter  in  his  hand.  The  morrow  had  kept  its 
promise.  Of  hunger  and  want  there  was  an 
end.  On  the  bed,  stretched  at  full  length, 
with  his  Grand  Army  hat  flung  beside  him, 
lay  the  inventor,  dead.  A  little  round  hole 
in  the  temple,  from  which  a  few  drops  of 
blood  had  flowed,  told  what  remained  of  his 
story.  In  the  night  disillusion  had  come, 
with  failure. 


THE  KID 

HE  was  an  every-day  tough,  bull-necked, 
square- jawed,  red  of  face,  and  with  his 
hair  cropped  short  in  the  fashion  that  rules  at 
Sing  Sing  and  is  admired  of  Battle  Row.  Any 
one  could  have  told  it  at  a  glance.  The 
bruised  and  wrathful  face  of  the  policeman 
who  brought  him  to  Mulberry  street,  to  be 
"  stood  up  "  before  the  detectives  in  the  hope 
that  there  might  be  something  against  him  to 
aggravate  the  offense  of  beating  an  officer 
with  his  own  club,  bore  witness  to  it.  It  told 
a  familiar  story.  The  prisoner's  gang  had 
started  a  fight  in  the  street,  probably  with 
a  scheme  of  ultimate  robbery  in  view,  and  the 
police  had  come  upon  it  unexpectedly.  The 
rest  had  got  away  with  an  assortment  of  pro- 
miscuous   bruises.      The    "Kid"    stood    his 

147 


148  THE  KID 

ground,  and  went  down  with  two  ^'  cops  "  on 
top  of  Mm  after  a  valiant  battle,  in  which  he 
had  performed  the  feat  that  entitled  him  to 
honorable  mention  henceforth  in  the  felonious 
annals  of  the  gang.  There  was  no  surrender 
in  his  sullen  look  as  he  stood  before  the  desk, 
his  hard  face  disfigured  further  by  a  streak  of 
half-dried  blood,  reminiscent  of  the  night's 
encounter.  The  fight  had  gone  against  him 
—that  was  all  right.  There  was  a  time  for 
getting  square.  Till  then  he  was  man 
enough  to  take  his  medicine,  let  them  do 
their  worst. 

It  was  there,  plain  as  could  be,  in  his  set 
jaws  and  dogged  bearing  as  he  came  out, 
numbered  now  and  indexed  in  the  rogues'  gal- 
lery, and  started  for  the  police  court  between 
two  officers.  It  chanced  that  I  was  going  the 
same  way,  and  joined  company.  Besides,  I 
have  certain  theories  concerning  toughs  which 
my  friend  the  sergeant  says  are  rot,  and  I 
was  not  averse  to  testing  them  on  the  Kid. 

But  the  Kid  was  a  bad  subject.  He  replied 
to  my  friendly  advances  with  a  muttered 
curse,  or  not  at  all,  and  upset  all  my  notions 
in  the  most  reckless  way.  Conversation  had 
ceased  before  we  were  half-way  across  to 
Broadway.     He  ''  wanted  no  guff,"  and  I  left 


THE  KID  149 

him  to  liis  meditations  respecting  his  defense- 
less state.  At  Broadway  there  was  a  jam  of 
trucks,  and  we  stopped  at  the  corner  to  wait 
for  an  opening. 

It  all  happened  so  quickly  that  only  a  con- 
fused picture  of  it  is  in  my  mind  till  this  day. 
A  sudden  start,  a  leap,  and  a  warning  cry,  and 
the  Kid  had  wrenched  himself  loose.  He  was 
free.  I  was  dimly  conscious  of  a  rush  of  blue 
and  brass ;  and  then  I  saw— the  whole  street 
saw— a  child,  a  toddling  baby,  in  the  middle 
of  the  railroad- track,  right  in  front  of  the  com- 
ing car.  It  reached  out  its  tiny  hand  toward 
the  madly  clanging  beU  and  crowed.  A  scream 
rose  wild  and  piercing  above  the  tumult  j  men 
struggled  with  a  frantic  woman  on  the  curb, 
and  turned  theii-  heads  away— 

And  then  there  stood  the  Kid,  with  the 
child  in  his  arms,  unhurt.  I  see  him  now,  as 
he  set  it  down  gently  as  any  woman,  trying, 
with  lingering  touch,  to  unclasp  the  grip  of 
the  baby  hand  upon  his  rough  finger.  I  see 
the  hard  look  coming  back  into  his  face  as  the 
policeman,  red  and  out  of  breath,  twisted  the 
nipper  on  his  wrist,  with  a  half-uncertain 
aside  to  me :  ^'  Them  toughs  there  ain't  no 
depending  on  nohow."  SuUen,  defiant,  plan- 
ning vengeance,  I  see  him  led  away  to  jail. 


150  THE   KID 

Ruffian  and  thief!     The  police  blotter  said 
so. 

But,  even  so,  the  Kid  had  proved  that  my 
theories  about  toughs  were  not  rot.  Who 
knows  but  that,  like  sergeants,  the  blotter 
may  be  sometimes  mistaken  ? 


LOST   CHILDREN 

I  AM  not  thinking  now  of  theological  dogmas 
or  moral  distinctions.  I  am  considering 
the  matter  from  the  plain  every-day  standpoint 
of  the  police  office.  It  is  not  my  fault  that 
the  one  thing  that  is  lost  more  persistently 
than  any  other  in  a  large  city  is  the  very  thing 
you  would  imagine  to  be  safest  of  all  in  the 
keeping  of  its  owner.  Nor  do  I  pretend  to 
explain  it.  It  is  simply  one  of  the  contradic- 
tions of  metropolitan  life.  In  twenty  years' 
acquaintance  wdth  the  police  office,  I  have 
seen  money,  diamonds,  coffins,  horses,  and 
tubs  of  butter  brought  there  and  passed  into 
the  keeping  of  the  property  clerk  as  lost  or 
strayed.  I  remember  a  whole  front  stoop, 
brownstone,  with  steps  and  iron  railing  all 
complete,  being  put  up  at  auction,  unclaimed. 
But  these  were  mere  representatives  of  a  class 

151 


152  LOST   CHILDREN 

which  as  a  whole  kept  its  place  and  the  peace. 
The  children  did  neither.  One  might  have 
been  tempted  to  apply  the  old  inquiry  about 
the  pins  to  them  but  for  another  contradictory 
circumstance :  rather  more  of  them  are  found 
than  lost. 

The  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to 
Children  keeps  the  account  of  the  surplus.  It 
has  now  on  its  books  half  a  score  Jane  Does 
and  twice  as  many  Richard  Roes,  of  whom 
nothing  more  will  ever  be  known  than  that 
they  were  found,  which  is  on  the  whole,  per- 
haps, best— for  them  certainly.  The  others, 
the  lost,  drift  from  the  tenements  and  back, 
a  host  of  thousands  year  by  year.  The  two  I 
am  thinking  of  were  of  these,  typical  of  the 
maelstrom. 

Yette  Lubinsky  was  three  years  old  when 
she  was  lost  from  her  Essex-street  home,  in 
that  neighborhood  where  once  the  police  com- 
missioners thought  seriously  of  ha\dng  the 
children  tagged  with  name  and  street  number, 
to  save  trotting  them  back  and  forth  between 
police  station  and  Headquarters.  She  had 
gone  from  the  tenement  to  the  corner  where 
her  father  kept  a  stand,  to  beg  a  penny,  and 
nothing  more  was  known  of  her.  Weeks 
after,  a  neighbor  identified  one  of  her  little 


LOST   CHILDREN  153 

frocks  as  the  match  of  one  worn  by  a  child 
she  had  seen  dragged  off  by  a  rough-looking 
man.  But  though  Max  Lubinsky,  the  peddler, 
and  Yette's  mother  camped  on  the  steps  of 
Police  Headquarters  early  and  late,  anxiously 
questioning  every  one  who  went  in  and  out 
about  their  lost  child,  no  other  word  was 
heard  of  her.  By  and  by  it  came  to  be  an 
old  story,  and  the  two  were  looked  upon  as 
among  the  fixtures  of  the  place.  Mulberry 
street  has  other  such. 

They  were  poor  and  friendless  in  a  strange 
land,  the  very  language  of  which  was  jargon 
to  them,  as  theii's  was  to  us,  timid  in  the 
crush,  and  they  were  shouldered  out.  It  was 
not  inhumanity ;  at  least,  it  was  not  meant  to 
be.  It  was  the  way  of  the  city,  with  every 
one  for  himself ;  and  they  accepted  it,  uncom- 
plaining. So  they  kept  their  vigil  on  the 
stone  steps,  in  storm  and  fair  weather,  every 
night,  taking  turns  to  watch  all  who  passed. 
When  it  was  a  policeman  with  a  little  child, 
as  it  was  many  times  between  sunset  and  sun- 
rise, the  one  on  the  watch  would  start  up  the 
minute  they  turned  the  corner,  and  run  to 
meet  them,  eagerly  scanning  the  little  face, 
only  to  return,  disappointed  but  not  cast 
down,  to  the  step  upon  which  the  other  slept, 


154  LOST  CHILDREN 

head  upon  knees,  waiting  the  summons  to 
wake  and  watch. 

Their  mute  sorrow  appealed  to  me,  then 
doing  night  duty  in  the  newspaper  office 
across  the  way,  and  I  tried  to  help  them  in 
their  search  for  the  lost  Yette.  They  accepted 
my  help  gratefully,  trustfully,  but  without 
loud  demonstration.  Together  we  searched 
the  police  records,  the  hospitals,  the  morgue, 
and  the  long  register  of  the  river's  dead.  She 
was  not  there.  Having  made  sure  of  this,  we 
turned  to  the  children's  asylums.  We  had  a 
description  of  Yette  sent  to  each  and  every 
one,  with  the  minutest  particulars  concerning 
her  and  her  disappearance,  but  no  word  came 
back  in  response.  A  year  passed,  and  we 
were  compelled  at  last  to  give  over  the  search. 
It  seemed  as  if  every  means  of  finding  out  what 
had  become  of  the  child  had  been  exhausted, 
and  all  alike  had  failed. 

During  the  long  search,  I  had  occasion  to 
go  more  than  once  to  the  Lubinskys'  home. 
They  lived  up  three  flights,  in  one  of  the  big 
barracks  that  give  to  the  lower  end  of  Essex 
street  the  appearance  of  a  deep  black  canon 
with  cliff-dwellers  living  in  tiers  all  the  way 
up,  their  watch-fires  showing  like  so  many  dull 
red  eyes  through  the  night.     The  hall  was 


LOST   CHILDREN  155 

pitch-dark,  and  the  whole  building  redolent 
of  the  slum  j  but  in  the  stuffy  little  room  where 
the  peddler  lived  there  was,  in  spite  of  it  all, 
an  atmosphere  of  home  that  set  it  sharply 
apart  from  the  rest.  One  of  these  visits  I  will 
always  remember.  I  had  stumbled  in,  un- 
thinking, upon  their  Sabbath-eve  meal.  The 
candles  were  lighted,  and  the  children  gath- 
ered about  the  table  5  at  its  head,  the  father, 
every  trace  of  the  timid,  shrinking  peddler  of 
Mulberry  street  laid  aside  with  the  week's  toil, 
was  invoking  the  Sabbath  blessing  upon  his 
house  and  all  it  harbored.  I  saw  him  turn, 
with  a  quiver  of  the  lip,  to  a  vacant  seat  be- 
tween him  and  the  mother;  and  it  was  then 
that  I  noticed  the  baby's  high  chair,  empty, 
but  kept  ever  waiting  for  the  little  wanderer. 
I  understood ;  and  in  the  strength  of  domestic 
affection  that  burned  with  unquenched  faith 
in  the  dark  tenement  after  the  many  months 
of  weary  failure  I  read  the  history  of  this 
strange  people  that  in  every  land  and  in  every 
day  has  conquered  even  the  slum  with  the 
hope  of  home. 

It  was  not  to  be  put  to  shame  here,  either. 
Yette  returned,  after  all,  and  the  way  of  it 
came  near  being  stranger  than  all  the  rest. 
Two  long  years  had  passed,  and  the  memory 


156  LOST   CHILDREN 

of  her  and  hers  had  long  since  faded  out  of 
Mulberry  street,  when,  in  the  overhauling  of 
one  of  the  children's  homes  we  thought  we  had 
canvassed  thoroughly,  the  child  turned  up,  as 
unaccountably  as  she  had  been  lost.  All  that 
I  ever  learned  about  it  was  that  she  had  been 
brought  there,  picked  up  by  some  one  in  the 
street,  probably,  and,  after  more  or  less  in- 
quiry that  had  failed  to  connect  with  the 
search  at  our  end  of  the  line,  had  been  in- 
cluded in  their  flock  on  some  formal  commit- 
ment, and  had  stayed  there.  Not  knowing 
her  name, — she  could  not  tell  it  herself,  to  be 
understood,— they  had  given  her  one  of  their 
own  choosing ;  and  thus  disguised,  she  might 
have  stayed  there  forever  but  for  the  fortu- 
nate chance  that  cast  her  up  to  the  surface  once 
more,  and  gave  the  clue  to  her  identity  at  last. 
Even  then  her  father  had  nearly  as  much 
trouble  in  proving  his  title  to  his  child  as  he 
had  had  in  looking  for  her,  but  in  the  end  he 
made  it  good.  The  frock  she  had  worn  when 
she  was  lost  proved  the  missing  link.  The 
mate  of  it  was  still  carefully  laid  away  in  the 
tenement.  So  Yette  returned  to  fill  the  empty 
chair  at  the  Sabbath  board,  and  the  peddler's 
faith  was  justified. 


LOST   CHILDREN  157 

My  other  chip  from  the  maelstrom  was  a  lad 
half  grown.  He  di'opped  into  my  office  as 
if  out  of  the  clouds,  one  long  and  busy  day, 
when,  tii'ed  and  out  of  sorts,  I  sat  wishing 
my  papers  and  the  world  in  general  in  Hali- 
fax. I  had  not  heard  the  knock,  and  when  I 
looked  up,  there  stood  my  boy,  a  stout,  square- 
shouldered  lad,  with  heavy  cowhide  boots  and 
dull,  honest  eyes— eyes  that  looked  into  mine 
as  if  mth  a  question  they  were  about  to  put, 
and  then  gave  it  up,  gazing  straight  ahead, 
stolid,  impassive.  It  struck  me  that  I  had 
seen  that  face  before,  and  I  found  out  imme- 
diately where.  The  officer  of  the  Children's 
Aid  Society  who  had  brought  him  explained 
that  Frauds— that  was  his  name— had  been 
in  the  society's  care  five  months  and  over. 
They  had  found  him  drifting  in  the  streets, 
and,  knowing  whither  that  drift  set,  had  taken 
him  in  charge  and  sent  him  to  one  of  their 
lodging-houses,  where  he  had  been  since,  doing 
chores  and  plodding  about  in  his  dull  way. 
That  was  where  I  had  met  him.  Now  they 
had  decided  that  he  should  go  to  Florida,  if 
he  would,  but  first  they  would  like  to  find  out 
something  about  him.  They  had  never  been 
able  to,  beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  from 


158  LOST  CHILDREN 

Denmark.  He  had  put  his  finger  on  the  map 
in  the  reading-room,  one  day,  and  shown  them 
where  he  came  from :  that  was  the  extent  of 
their  information  on  that  point.  So  they  had 
sent  him  to  me  to  talk  to  him  in  his  own 
tongue  and  see  what  I  could  make  of  him. 

I  addressed  him  in  the  politest  Danish  I  was 
master  of,  and  for  an  instant  I  saw  the  listen- 
ing, questioning  look  return  j  but  it  vanished 
almost  at  once,  and  he  answered  in  monosyl- 
lables, if  at  all.  Much  of  what  I  said  passed 
him  entirely  by.  He  did  not  seem  to  under- 
stand. By  slow  stages  I  got  out  of  him  that 
his  father  was  a  farm-laborer  5  that  he  had 
come  over  to  look  for  his  cousin,  who  worked 
in  Passaic,  New  Jersey,  and  had  found  him,— 
Heaven  knows  how !  —but  had  lost  him  again. 
Then  he  had  drifted  to  New  York,  where  the 
society's  officers  had  come  upon  him.  He 
nodded  when  told  that  he  was  to  be  sent  far 
away  to  the  country,  much  as  if  I  had  spoken 
of  some  one  he  had  never  heard  of.  We  had 
arrived  at  this  point  when  I  asked  him  the 
name  of  his  native  town. 

The  word  he  spoke  came  upon  me  with  aU 
the  force  of  a  sudden  blow.  I  had  played  in 
the  old  village  as  a  boy ;  all  my  childhood  was 
bound  up  in  its  memories.     For  many  years 


LOST   CHILDKEN  159 

now  I  had  not  heard  its  name— not  since  boy- 
hood days  spoken  as  he  spoke  it.  Perhaps  it 
was  because  I  was  tired:  the  office  faded 
away,  desk,  Headquarters  across  the  street, 
boy,  officer,  business,  and  all.  In  their  place 
were  the  brown  heath  I  loved,  the  distant 
hills,  the  winding  wagon-track,  the  peat- 
stacks,  and  the  solitary  sheep  browsing  on 
the  barrows.  Forgotten  the  thirty  years,  the 
seas  that  rolled  between,  the  teeming  city  !  I 
was  at  home  again,  a  child.  And  there  he 
stood,  the  boy,  with  it  all  in  his  dull,  absent 
look.     I  read  it  now  as  plain  as  the  day. 

*'Hua  er  et  no?  Ka  do  ett  fosto  hua  a 
sejer?" 

It  plumped  out  of  me  in  the  broad  Jutland 
dialect  I  had  neither  heard  nor  spoken  in  half 
a  hf  etime,  and  so  astonished  me  that  I  nearly 
fell  off  my  chair.  Sheep,  peat-stacks,  cairn, 
and  hills  all  vanished  together,  and  in  place 
of  the  sweet  heather  there  was  the  table  with 
the  tiresome  papers.  I  reached  out  yearningly 
after  the  heath ;  I  had  not  seen  it  for  such  a 
long  time,— how  long  it  did  seem  !— and— but 
in  the  same  breath  it  was  all  there  again  in 
the  smile  that  lighted  up  Frands's  broad 
face  like  a  glint  of  sunlight  from  a  leaden 
sky. 


160  LOST  CHILDREN 

^^  Joesses,  jou,"  he  laughed,  "  no  ka  a  da  saa 
grou  godt."  ^ 

It  was  the  first  honest  Danish  word  he  had 
heard  since  he  came  to  this  bewildering  land. 
I  read  it  in  his  face,  no  longer  heavy  or  dull  j 
saw  it  in  the  way  he  followed  my  speech— 
spelling  the  words,  as  it  were,  with  his  own 
lips,  to  lose  no  syllable  5  caught  it  in  his  glad 
smile  as  he  went  on  telling  me  about  his 
journey,  his  home,  and  his  homesickness  for 
the  heath,  with  a  breathless  kind  of  haste,  as 
if,  now  that  at  last  he  had  a  chance,  he  were 
afraid  it  was  aU  a  dream,  and  that  he  would 
presently  wake  up  and  find  it  gone.  Then  the 
officer  pulled  my  sleeve. 

He  had  coughed  once  or  twice,  but  neither 
of  us  had  heard  him.  Now  he  held  out  a 
paper  he  had  brought,  with  an  apologetic 
gesture.  It  was  an  agreement  Frauds  was  to 
sign,  if  he  was  going  to  Floridac  I  glanced 
at  it.  Florida?  Yes,  to  be  sure;  oh,  yes, 
Florida.  I  spoke  to  the  officer,  and  it  was  in 
the  Jutland  dialect.  I  tried  again,  with  no 
better  luck.     I  saw  him  looking  at  me  queerly, 

1  My  exclamation  on  finding  myself  so  suddenly 
translated  back  to  Denmark  was  an  impatient  "  Why, 
don't  you  understand  me  ?  "  His  answer  was,  "  Lord, 
yes,  now  I  do,  indeed." 


LOST   CHILDREN  161 

as  if  lie  thought  it  was  not  quite  right  with 
me,  either,  and  then  I  recovered  myself,  and 
got  back  to  the  office  and  to  America ;  but  it 
was  an  effort.  One  does  not  skip  across 
thirty  years  and  two  oceans,  at  my  age,  so 
easily  as  that. 

And  then  the  dull  look  came  back  into 
Frands's  eyes,  and  he  nodded  stolidly.  Yes, 
he  would  go  to  Florida.  The  papers  were 
made  out,  and  off  he  went,  after  giving  me  a 
hearty  hand-shake  that  warranted  he  would 
come  out  right  when  he  became  accustomed  to 
the  new  country ;  but  he  took  something  with 
him  which  it  hurt  me  to  part  with. 

Frands  is  long  since  in  Florida,  growing  up 

with  the  country,  and  little  Yette  is  a  young 

woman.     So  long  ago  was  it  that  the  current 

which  sucked  her  under  cast  her  up  again,  that 

there  lives  not  in  the  whole  street  any  one 

who  can  recall  her  loss.     I  tried  to  find  one 

only  the  other  day,  but  all  the  old  people  were 

dead  or  had  moved  away,  and  of  the  young, 

who  were  very  anxious  to  help  me,  scarcely  one 

was  born  at  that  time.    But  still  the  maelstrom 

drags  down  its  victims ;  and  far  away  lies  my 

Danish  heath  under  the  gray  October  sky, 

hidden  behind  the  seas. 
u 


THE  SLIPPER-MAKER'S  FAST 

ISAAC  JOSEPHS,  slipper-maker,  sat  up  on 
the  fifth  floor  of  his  Allen-street  tenement, 
in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  to  finish  the  task 
he  had  set  himself  before  Yom  Kippur.  Three 
days  and  three  nights  he  had  worked  without 
sleep,  almost  without  taking  time  to  eat,  to 
make  ready  the  two  dozen  slippers  that  were 
to  enable  him  to  fast  the  fourth  day  and  night 
for  conscience'  sake,  and  now  they  were  nearly 
done.  As  he  saw  the  end  of  his  task  near,  he 
worked  faster  and  faster,  while  the  tenement 
slept. 

Three  years  he  had  slaved  for  the  sweater, 
stinted  and  starved  himself,  before  he  had 
saved  enough  to  send  for  his  wife  and  children, 
awaiting  his  summons  in  the  city  by  the  Black 
Sea.  Since  they  came  they  had  slaved  and 
starved  together ;  for  wages  had  become  stead- 

162 


THE   SLIPPER-MAKER'S  FAST  163 

ily  less,  work  more  grinding,  and  hours  longer 
and  later.  Still,  of  that  he  thought  little. 
They  had  known  little  else,  there  or  here,  and 
they  were  together  now.  The  past  was  dead  j 
the  future  was  their  own,  even  in  the  Allen- 
street  tenement,  toiling  night  and  day  at  star- 
vation wages.  To-morrow  was  the  feast,  their 
first  Yoni  Kippur  since  they  had  come  together 
again,— Esther,  his  wife,  and  Ruth  and  little 
Ben,— the  feast  when,  priest  and  patriarch  of 
his  own  house,  he  might  forget  his  bondage 
and  be  free.  Poor  little  Ben  !  The  hand  that 
smoothed  the  soft  leather  on  the  last  took  a 
tenderer,  lingering  touch  as  he  glanced  toward 
the  stool  where  the  child  had  sat  watching  him 
work  till  his  eyes  grew  small.  Brave  little 
Ben,  almost  a  baby  yet,  but  so  patient,  so 
wise,  and  so  strong ! 

The  deep  breathing  of  the  sleeping  children 
reached  him  from  their  crib.  He  smiled  and 
listened,  with  the  half -finished  slipper  in  his 
hand.  As  he  sat  thus,  a  great  drowsiness 
came  upon  him.  He  nodded  once,  twice ;  his 
hands  sank  into  his  lap,  his  head  fell  forward 
upon  his  chest.  In  the  silence  of  the  morning 
he  slept,  worn  out  with  utter  weariness. 

He  awoke  with  a  guilty  start  to  find  the 
first  rays  of  the  dawn  struggling  through  his 


164         THE   SLIPPER-MAKER'S  FAST 

window,  and  his  task  yet  undone.  With 
desperate  energy  he  seized  the  unfinished 
slipper  to  resume  his  work.  His  unsteady 
hand  upset  the  little  lamp  by  his  side,  upon 
which  his  burnishing-iron  was  heating.  The 
oil  blazed  up  on  the  floor  and  ran  toward  the 
nearly  finished  pile  of  work.  The  cloth  on  the 
table  caught  fire.  In  a  fever  of  terror  and  ex- 
citement, the  slipper-maker  caught  it  in  his 
hands,  wrung  it,  and  tore  at  it  to  smother  the 
flames.  His  hands  were  burned,  but  what  of 
that?  The  slippers,  the  slippers!  If  they 
were  burned,  it  was  ruin.  There  would  be  no 
Yom  Kippur,  no  feast  of  Atonement,  no  fast 
—rather,  no  end  of  it ;  starvation  for  him  and 
his. 

He  beat  the  fire  with  his  hands  and  trampled 
it  with  his  feet  as  it  burned  and  spread  on  the 
floor.  His  hair  and  his  beard  caught  fire. 
With  a  despairing  shriek  he  gave  it  up  and 
fell  before  the  precious  slippers,  barring  the 
way  of  the  flames  to  them  with  his  body. 

The  shriek  woke  his  wife.  She  sprang  out 
of  bed,  snatched  up  a  blanket,  and  threw  it 
upon  the  fire.  It  went  out,  was  smothered 
under  the  blanket.  The  slipper-maker  sat  up, 
panting  and  grateful.  His  Yom  Kippur  was 
saved. 


THE   SLIPPER-MAKER'S   FAST  165 

The  tenement  awoke  to  hear  of  the  fire  in 
the  morning,  when  all  Jewtown  was  stirring 
with  preparations  for  the  feast.  The  slipper- 
maker's  wife  was  setting  the  house  to  rights 
for  the  holiday  then.  Two  half -naked  children 
played  about  her  knees,  asking  eager  questions 
about  it.  Asked  if  her  husband  had  often  to 
work  so  hard,  and  what  he  made  by  it,  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and  said :  "  The  rent 
and  a  crust." 

And  yet  all  this  labor  and  effort  to  enable 
him  to  fast  one  day  according  to  the  old  dis- 
pensation, when  all  the  rest  of  the  days  he 
fasted  according  to  the  new ! 


PAOLO'S  AWAKENING 

PAOLO  sat  cross-legged  on  his  bench, 
stitching  away  for  dear  life.  He  pursed 
his  lips  and  screwed  up  his  mouth  into  all 
sorts  of  odd  shapes  with  the  effort,  for  it  was 
an  effort.  He  was  only  eight,  and  you  would 
scarcely  have  imagined  him  over  six,  as  he  sat 
there  sewing  like  a  real  little  tailor  -,  only  Paolo 
knew  but  one  seam,  and  that  a  hard  one. 
Yet  he  held  the  needle  and  felt  the  edge  with 
it  in  quite  a  grown-up  way,  and  pulled  the 
thread  just  as  far  as  his  short  arm  would 
reach.  His  mother  sat  on  a  stool  by  the  win- 
dow, where  she  could  help  him  when  he  got 
into  a  snarl,— as  he  did  once  in  a  while,  in 
spite  of  all  he  could  do,— or  when  the  needle 
had  to  be  threaded.  Then  she  dropped  her 
own  sewing,  and,  patting  him  on  the  head, 
said  he  was  a  good  boy. 

166 


PAOLO'S  AWAKENING  167 

Paolo  felt  very  proud  and  big  then,  that  he 
was  able  to  help  his  mother,  and  he  worked 
even  more  carefully  and  faithfully  than  be- 
fore, so  that  the  boss  should  find  no  fault. 
The  shouts  of  the  boys  in  the  block,  playing 
duck-on-a-rock  down  in  the  street,  came  in 
through  the  open  window,  and  he  laughed  as 
he  heard  them.  He  did  not  envy  them,  though 
he  liked  well  enough  to  romp  with  the  others. 
His  was  a  sunny  temper,  content  with  what 
came  j  besides,  his  supper  was  at  stake,  and 
Paolo  had  a  good  appetite.  They  were  in 
sober  earnest  working  for  dear  life— Paolo 
and  his  mother. 

'^  Pants  "  for  the  sweater  in  Stanton  street 
was  what  they  were  making;  little  knicker- 
bockers for  boys  of  Paolo's  own  age.  '^  Twelve 
pants  for  ten  cents,"  he  said,  counting  on  his 
fingers.  The  mother  brought  them  once  a 
week— a  big  bundle  which  she  carried  home 
on  her  head— to  have  the  buttons  put  on,  four- 
teen on  each  pair,  the  bottoms  turned  up,  and 
a  ribbon  sewed  fast  to  the  back  seam  inside. 
That  was  called  finishing.  When  work  was 
brisk— and  it  was  not  always  so  since  there 
had  been  such  frequent  strikes  in  Stanton 
street— they  could  together  make  the  rent- 
money,  and  even  more,  as  Paolo  was  learning 


168  PAOLO'S  AWAKENING 

and  getting  a  stronger  grip  on  the  needle 
week  by  week.  The  rent  was  six  dollars  a 
month  for  a  dingy  basement  room,  in  which 
it  was  twilight  even  on  the  brightest  days, 
and  a  dark  little  cubbyhole,  where  it  was 
always  midnight,  and  where  there  was  just 
room  for  a  bed  of  old  boards,  no  more.  In 
there  slept  Paolo  with  his  uncle ;  his  mother 
made  her  bed  on  the  floor  of  the  "  kitchen," 
as  they  called  it. 

The  three  made  the  family.  There  used  to 
be  four ;  but  one  stormy  night  in  winter  Paolo's 
father  had  not  come  home.  The  uncle 
came  alone,  and  the  story  he  told  made  the 
poor  home  in  the  basement  darker  and  drearier 
for  many  a  day  than  it  had  yet  been.  The 
two  men  worked  together  for  a  padi'one  on 
the  scows.  They  were  in  the  crew  that  went 
out  that  day  to  the  dumping-ground,  far  out- 
side the  harbor.  It  was  a  dangerous  jom-ney 
in  a  rough  sea.  The  half -frozen  Italians  clung 
to  the  great  heaps  like  so  many  frightened 
flies,  when  the  waves  rose  and  tossed  the 
unwieldy  scows  about,  bumping  one  against 
the  other,  though  they  were  strung  out  in  a 
long  row  behind  the  tug,  quite  a  distance 
apart.  One  sea  washed  entirely  over  the  last 
scow  and  nearly  upset  it.     When  it  floated 


PAOLO'S  AWAKENING  169 

even  again,  two  of  the  crew  were  missing, 
one  of  them  Paolo's  father.  They  had  been 
washed  away  and  lost,  miles  from  shore.  No 
one  ever  saw  them  again. 

The  widow's  tears  flowed  for  her  dead  hus- 
band, whom  she  could  not  even  see  laid  in  a 
grave  which  the  priest  had  blessed.  The  good 
father  spoke  to  her  of  the  sea  as  a  vast  God's- 
acre,  over  which  the  storms  are  forever  chant- 
ing anthems  in  his  praise  to  whom  the  secrets 
of  its  depths  are  revealed ;  but  she  thought 
of  it  only  as  the  cruel  destroyer  that  had 
robbed  her  of  her  husband,  and  her  tears  fell 
faster.  Paolo  cried,  too :  partly  because  his 
mother  cried;  partly,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  because  he  was  not  to  have  a  ride  to  the 
cemetery  in  the  splendid  coach.  Giuseppe 
Salvatore,  in  the  corner  house,  had  never 
ceased  talking  of  the  ride  he  had  when  his 
father  died,  the  year  before.  Pietro  and  Jim 
went  along,  too,  and  rode  all  the  way  behind 
the  hearse  with  black  plumes.  It  was  a  sore 
subject  with  Paolo,  for  he  was  in  school  that 
day. 

And  then  he  and  his  mother  dried  their 
tears  and  went  to  work.  Henceforth  there 
was  to  be  little  else  for  them.  The  luxury  of 
grief  is  not  among  the  few  luxuries  which 


170  PAOLO'S  AWAKENING 

Mott-street  tenements  afford.  Paolo's  life, 
after  that,  was  lived  mainly  with  the  pants 
on  his  hard  bench  in  the  rear  tenement.  His 
routine  of  work  was  varied  by  the  household 
duties,  which  he  shared  with  his  mother. 
There  were  the  meals  to  get,  few  and  plain  as 
they  were.  Paolo  was  the  cook,  and  not  in- 
frequently, when  a  building  was  being  torn 
down  in  the  neighborhood,  he  furnished  the 
fuel  as  well.  Those  were  liis  off  days,  when 
he  put  the  needle  away  and  foraged  with  the 
other  children,  dragging  old  beams  and  carry- 
ing burdens  far  beyond  his  years. 

The  truant  officer  never  found  his  way 
to  Paolo's  tenement  to  discover  that  he  could 
neither  read  nor  write,  and,  what  was  more, 
would  probably  never  learn.  It  would  have 
been  of  little  use,  for  the  public  schools 
thereabouts  were  crowded,  and  Paolo  could 
not  have  got  into  one  of  them  if  he  had  tried. 
The  teacher  from  the  Industrial  School, 
which  he  had  attended  for  one  brief  season 
while  his  father  was  alive,  called  at  long  in- 
tervals, and  brought  him  once  a  plant,  which 
he  set  out  in  his  mother's  window-garden  and 
nursed  carefuUy  ever  after.  The  "  garden  " 
was  contained  within  an  old  starch-box,  which 
had  its  place  on  the  window-siU  since  the 


PAOLO'S  AWAKENING  171 

policeman  had  ordered  the  fii'e-escape  to  be 
cleared.  It  was  a  kitchen-garden  with  vege- 
tables, and  was  almost  all  the  green  there 
was  in  the  landscape.  From  one  or  two 
other  windows  in  the  yard  there  peeped  tufts 
of  green;  but  of  trees  there  was  none  in 
sight— nothing  but  the  bare  clothes-poles 
with  their  pulley -lines  stretching  from  every 
window. 

Beside  the  cemetery  plot  in  the  next  block 
there  was  not  an  open  spot  or  breathing-place, 
certainly  not  a  playground,  within  reach  of 
that  great  teeming  slum  that  harbored  more 
than  a  hundred  thousand  persons,  young  and 
old.  Even  the  graveyard  was  shut  in  by  a 
high  brick  wall,  so  that  a  glimpse  of  the 
greensward  over  the  old  mounds  was  to  be 
caught  only  through  the  spiked  iron  gates, 
the  key  to  which  was  lost,  or  by  standing 
on  tiptoe  and  craning  one^s  neck.  The  dead 
there  were  of  more  account,  though  they  had 
been  forgotten  these  many  years,  than  the 
living  children  who  gazed  so  wistfully 
upon  the  little  paradise  through  the  barred 
gates,  and  were  chased  by  the  policeman  when 
he  came  that  way.  Something  like  this 
thought  was  in  Paolo's  mind  when  he  stood 
at  sunset  and  peered  in  at  the  golden  rays 


172  PAOLO'S  AWAKENING 

falling  athwart  the  green,  but  he  did  not 
know  it.  Paolo  was  not  a  philosopher,  but 
he  loved  beanty  and  beautiful  things,  and  was 
conscious  of  a  great  hunger  which  there  was 
nothing  in  his  narrow  world  to  satisfy. 

Certainly  not  in  the  tenement.  It  was  old 
and  rickety  and  wretched,  in  keeping  with 
the  slum  of  which  it  formed  a  part.  The 
whitewash  was  peeling  off  the  walls,  the  stairs 
were  patched,  and  the  door-step  long  since 
worn  entirely  away.  It  was  hard  to  be 
decent  in  such  a  place,  but  the  widow  did 
the  best  she  could.  Her  rooms  were  as  neat 
as  the  general  dilapidation  would  permit.  On 
the  shelf  where  the  old  clock  stood,  flanked 
by  the  best  crockery,  most  of  it  cracked  and 
yellow  with  age,  there  was  red  and  green 
paper  cut  in  scallops  very  nicely.  Garlic  and 
onions  hung  in  strings  over  the  stove,  and 
the  red  peppers  that  grew  in  the  starch-box 
at  the  window  gave  quite  a  cheerful  appear- 
ance to  the  room.  In  the  corner,  under  a 
cheap  print  of  the  Virgin  Mary  with  the 
Child,  a  small  night-light  in  a  blue  glass  was 
always  kept  burning.  It  was  a  kind  of 
illumination  in  honor  of  the  Mother  of  God, 
through  which  the  widow's  devout  nature 
found  expression.   Paolo  always  looked  upon 


PAOLO'S  AWAKENING  173 

it  as  a  very  solemn  show.  When  he  said  his 
prayers,  the  sweet,  patient  eyes  in  the  pictm-e 
seemed  to  watch  him  with  a  mild  look  that 
made  him  turn  over  and  go  to  sleep  with  a 
sigh  of  contentment.  He  felt  then  that  he 
had  not  been  altogether  bad,  and  that  he 
was  quite  safe  in  tlieu-  keeping. 

Yet  Paolo's  life  was  not  wholly  without  its 
bright  spots.  Far  from  it.  There  were  the 
occasional  trips  to  the  dump  with  Uncle 
Pasquale's  dinner,  where  there  was  always 
sport  to  be  had  in  chasing  the  rats  that  over- 
ran the  place,  fighting  for  the  scraps  and  bones 
the  trimmers  had  rescued  from  the  scows. 
There  were  so  many  of  them,  and  so  bold  were 
they,  that  an  old  Italian  who  could  no  longer 
dig  was  employed  to  sit  on  a  bale  of  rags 
and  throw  things  at  them,  lest  they  carry  off 
the  whole  establishment.  When  he  hit  one, 
the  rest  squealed  and  scampered  away ;  but 
they  were  back  again  in  a  minute,  and  the 
old  man  had  his  hands  full  pretty  nearly  all 
the  time.  Paolo  thought  that  his  was  a 
glorious  job,  as  any  boy  might,  and  hoped 
that  he  would  soon  be  old,  too,  and  as 
important.  And  then  the  men  at  the  cage— 
a  great  wire  crate  into  which  the  rags  from  the 
ash-barrels  were  stuffed,  to  be  plunged  into 


174  PAOLO'S  AWAKENING 

the  river,  where  the  tide  ran  through  them  and 
carried  some  of  the  loose  dirt  away.  That  was 
called  washing  the  rags.  To  Paolo  it  was  the 
most  exciting  thing  in  the  world.  What  if 
some  day  the  crate  should  bring  up  a  fish,  a 
real  fish,  from  the  river  ?  When  he  thought  of 
it,  he  wished  that  he  might  be  sitting  forever 
on  that  string-piece,  fishing  with  the  rag-cage, 
particularly  when  he  was  tired  of  stitching 
and  turning  over,  a  whole  long  day. 

Besides,  there  were  the  real  holidays,  when 
there  was  a  marriage,  a  christening,  or  a 
funeral  in  the  tenement,  particularly  when  a 
baby  died  whose  father  belonged  to  one  of 
the  many  benefit  societies.  A  brass  band 
was  the  proper  thing  then,  and  the  whole 
block  took  a  vacation  to  follow  the  music 
and  the  white  hearse  out  of  their  ward  into 
the  next.  But  the  chief  of  all  the  holidays 
came  once  a  year,  when  the  feast  of  St. 
Rocco— the  patron  saint  of  the  \dllage  where 
Paolo's  parents  had  lived  —  was  celebrated. 
Then  a  really  beautiful  altar  was  erected  at 
one  end  of  the  yard,  with  lights  and  pictures 
on  it.  The  rear  fire-escapes  in  the  whole  row 
were  decked  with  sheets,  and  made  into  hand- 
some balconies, — reserved  seats,  as  it  were, — 
on  which  the  tenants  sat  and  enjoyed  it.    A 


PAOLO'S  AWAKENING  175 

band  in  gorgeous  uniforms  played  three 
whole  daj's  in  the  yard,  and  the  men  in  their 
holiday  clothes  stepped  up,  bowed,  and 
crossed  themselves,  and  laid  their  gifts  on 
the  plate  which  St.  Rocco's  namesake,  the 
saloon-keeper  in  the  block,  who  had  got  up 
the  celebration,  had  put  there  for  them.  In 
the  evening  they  set  off  great  strings  of  fire- 
crackers in  the  street,  in  the  saint's  honor, 
until  the  police  interfered  once  and  forbade 
that.  Those  were  great  days  for  Paolo 
always. 

But  the  fun  Paolo  loved  best  of  all  was 
when  he  could  get  in  a  corner  by  himself, 
with  no  one  to  disturb  him,  and  build 
castles  and  things  out  of  some  abandoned 
clay  or  mortar,  or  wet  sand  if  there  was 
nothing  better.  The  plastic  material  took 
strange  shapes  of  beauty  under  his  hands. 
It  was  as  if  life  had  been  somehow  breathed 
into  it  by  his  touch,  and  it  ordered  itself 
as  none  of  the  other  boys  could  make  it. 
His  fingers  were  tipped  with  genius,  but  he 
did  not  know  it,  for  his  work  was  only  for 
the  hour.  He  destroyed  it  as  soon  as  it  was 
made,  to  try  for  something  better.  What  he 
had  made  never  satisfied  him  —  one  of  the 
surest  proofs  that  he  was  capable  of  great 


176  PAOLO'S  AWAKENING 

things,  had  he  only  known  it.  But,  as  I  said, 
he  did  not. 

The  teacher  from  the  Industrial  School 
came  upon  him  one  day,  sitting  in  the  comer 
by  himself,  and  breathing  life  into  the  mud. 
She  stood  and  watched  him  awhile,  unseen, 
getting  interested,  almost  excited,  as  he 
worked  on.  As  for  Paolo,  he  was  solving 
the  problem  that  had  eluded  him  so  long,  and 
had  eyes  or  thought  for  nothing  else.  As  his 
fingers  ran  over  the  soft  clay,  the  needle,  the 
hard  bench,  the  pants,  even  the  sweater 
himself,  vanished  out  of  his  sight,  out  of  his 
life,  and  he  thought  only  of  the  beautiful 
things  he  was  fashioning  to  express  the 
longing  in  his  soul,  which  nothing  mortal 
could  shape.  Then,  suddenly,  seeing  and 
despairing,  he  dashed  it  to  pieces,  and  came 
back  to  earth  and  to  the  tenement. 

But  not  to  the  pants  and  the  sweater. 
What  the  teacher  had  seen  that  day  had  set 
her  to  thinking,  and  her  visit  resulted  in 
a  great  change  for  Paolo.  She  called  at 
night  and  had  a  long  talk  with  his  mother 
and  uncle  through  the  medium  of  the  priest, 
who  interpreted  when  they  got  to  a  hard 
place.  Uncle  Pasquale  took  but  little  part 
in  the  conversation.     He  sat  by  and  nodded 


PAOLO'S  AWAKENING  177 

most  of  the  time,  assured  by  the  presence 
of  the  priest  that  it  was  all  right.  The  widow 
cried  a  good  deal,  and  went  more  than  once 
to  take  a  look  at  the  boy,  lying  snugly  tucked 
in  his  bed  in  the  inner  room,  quite  un- 
conscious of  the  weighty  matters  that  were 
being  decided  concerning  him.  She  came 
back  the  last  time  drying  her  eyes,  and  laid 
both  her  hands  in  the  hand  of  the  teacher. 
She  nodded  twice  and  smiled  through  her 
tears,  and  the  bargain  was  made.  Paolo's 
slavery  was  at  an  end. 

His  friend  came  the  next  day  and  took  him 
away,  dressed  up  in  his  best  clothes,  to  a 
large  school  where  there  were  many  children, 
not  of  his  own  people,  and  where  he  was  re- 
ceived kindly.  There  dawned  that  day  a  new 
life  for  Paolo,  for  in  the  afternoon  trays  of 
modeling-clay  were  brought  in,  and  the  chil- 
dren were  told  to  mold  in  it  objects  that  were 
set  before  them.  Paolo's  teacher  stood  by, 
and  nodded  approvingly  as  his  little  fingers 
played  so  deftly  with  the  clay,  his  face  all 
lighted  up  with  joy  at  this  strange  kind  of  a 
school-lesson. 

After  that  he  had  a  new  and  faithful  friend, 
and,  as  he  worked  away,  putting  his  whole 
young  soul  into  the  tasks  that  filled  it  with 

12 


178  PAOLO'S  AWAKENING 

radiant  hope,  other  friends,  rich  and  power- 
ful, found  him  out  in  his  slum.  They  brought 
better-paying  work  for  his  mother  than  sew- 
ing pants  for  the  sweater,  and  Uncle  Pasquale 
abandoned  the  scows  to  become  a  porter  in  a 
big  shipping-house  on  the  West  Side.  The 
little  family  moved  out  of  the  old  home  into 
a  better  tenement,  though  not  far  away. 
Paolo's  loyal  heart  clung  to  the  neighbor- 
hood where  he  had  played  and  dreamed  as  a 
child,  and  he  wanted  it  to  share  in  his  good 
fortune,  now  that  it  had  come.  As  the  days 
passed,  the  neighbors  who  had  known  him  as 
little  Paolo  came  to  speak  of  him  as  one  who 
some  day  would  be  a  great  artist  and  make 
them  all  proud.  He  laughed  at  that,  and 
said  that  the  first  bust  he  would  hew  in 
marble  should  be  that  of  his  patient,  faithful 
mother ;  and  with  that  he  gave  her  a  little 
hug,  and  danced  out  of  the  room,  leaving  her 
to  look  after  him  with  glistening  eyes,  brim- 
ming over  with  happiness. 

But  Paolo's  dream  was  to  have  another 
awakening.  The  years  passed  and  brought 
their  changes.  In  the  manly  youth  who 
came  forward  as  his  name  was  called  in  the 
academy,  and  stood  modestly  at  the  desk  to 
receive  his  diploma,  few  would  have  recog- 


PAOLO'S  AWAKENING  179 

nized  the  little  ragamuffin  who  had  dragged 
bundles  of  fire-wood  to  the  rookery  in  the 
alley,  and  carried  Uncle  Pasquale's  dinner- 
pail  to  the  dump.  But  the  audience  gath- 
ered to  witness  the  commencement  exercises 
knew  it  all,  and  greeted  him  with  a  hearty 
welcome  that  recalled  his  early  struggles  and 
his  hard-won  success.  It  was  Paolo's  day  of 
triumph.  The  class  honors  and  the  medal 
were  his.  The  bust  that  had  won  both  stood 
in  the  hall  crowned  with  laurel  —  an  Italian 
peasant  woman,  with  sweet,  gentle  face,  in 
which  there  lingered  the  memories  of  the 
patient  eyes  that  had  lulled  the  child  to 
sleep  in  the  old  days  in  the  alley.  His 
teacher  spoke  to  him,  spoke  of  him,  with 
pride  in  voice  and  glance ;  spoke  tenderly 
of  his  old  mother  of  the  tenement,  of  his 
faithful  work,  of  the  loyal  manhood  that 
ever  is  the  soul  and  badge  of  true  genius. 
As  he  bade  him  welcome  to  the  fellowship  of 
artists  who  in  him  honored  the  best  and 
noblest  in  their  own  aspirations,  the  emotion 
of  the  audience  found  voice  once  more.  Pa- 
olo, flushed,  his  eyes  filled  with  happy  tears, 
stumbled  out,  he  knew  not  how,  with  the 
coveted  parchment  in  his  hand. 

Home  to  his  mother!      It  was  the  one 


180  PAOLO'S  AWAKENING 

thought  in  his  mind  as  he  walked  toward 
the  big  bridge  to  cross  to  the  city  of  his 
home  —  to  tell  her  of  his  joy,  of  his  success. 
Soon  she  would  no  longer  be  poor.  The  day 
of  hardship  was  over.  He  could  work  now 
and  earn  money,  much  money,  and  the  world 
would  know  and  honor  Paolo's  mother  as  it 
had  honored  him.  As  he  walked  through 
the  foggy  winter  day  toward  the  river,  where 
delayed  throngs  jostled  one  another  at  the 
bridge  entrance,  he  thought  with  grateful 
heart  of  the  friends  who  had  smoothed  the 
way  for  him.  Ah,  not  for  long  the  fog  and 
slush !  The  medal  carried  with  it  a  travel- 
ing stipend,  and  soon  the  sunlight  of  his 
native  land  for  him  and  her.  He  should  hear 
the  surf  wash  on  the  shingly  beach  and  in 
the  deep  grottoes  of  which  she  had  sung  to 
him  when  a  child.  Had  he  not  promised  her 
this  ?  And  had  they  not  many  a  time  laughed 
for  very  joy  at  the  prospect,  the  two  together  ? 
He  picked  his  way  up  the  crowded  stairs, 
carefully  guarding  the  precious  roll.  The 
crush  was  even  greater  than  usual.  There 
had  been  delay  —  something  wrong  with  the 
cable ;  but  a  train  was  just  waiting,  and  he 
hurried  on  board  with  the  rest,  little  heeding 
what  became  of  him  so  long  as  the  diploma 
was  safe.     The  train  rolled  out  on  the  bridge, 


PAOLO'S  AWAKENING  181 

with  Paolo  wedged  in  tlie  crowd  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  last  car,  holding  the  paper  high 
over  his  head,  where  it  was  sheltered  safe 
from  the  fog  and  the  rain  and  the  crush. 

Another  train  backed  up,  received  its  load 
of  cross  humanity,  and  vanished  in  the  mist. 
The  damp  gray  curtain  had  barely  closed  be- 
hind it,  and  the  impatient  throng  was  fret- 
ting at  a  further  delay,  when  consternation 
spread  in  the  bridge-house.  Word  had  come 
up  from  the  track  that  something  had  hap- 
pened. Trains  were  stalled  all  along  the 
route.  While  the  dread  and  uncertainty 
grew,  a  messenger  ran  up,  out  of  breath. 
There  had  been  a  collision.  The  last  train 
had  run  into  the  one  preceding  it,  in  the  fog. 
One  was  killed,  others  were  injured.  Doc- 
tors and  ambulances  were  wanted. 

They  came  with  the  police,  and  by  and  by 
the  partly  wrecked  train  was  hauled  up  to 
the  platform.  When  the  wounded  had  been 
taken  to  the  hospital,  they  bore  from  the 
train  the  body  of  a  youth,  clutching  yet  in 
his  hand  a  torn,  blood-stained  paper,  tied 
about  with  a  purple  ribbon.  It  was  Paolo. 
The  awakening  had  come.  Brighter  skies 
than  those  of  sunny  Italy  had  dawned  upon 
him  in  the  gloom  and  terror  of  the  great  crash. 
Paolo  was  at  home,  waiting  for  his  mother. 


THE 

LITTLE  DOLLAR'S  CHRISTMAS 

JOURNEY 

"  XT  is  too  bad/'  said  Mrs.  Lee,  and  she  put 
A  down  the  magazine  in  which  she  had 
been  reading  of  the  poor  children  in  the 
tenements  of  the  great  city  that  know  little 
of  Christmas  joys ;  '^  no  Christmas  tree !  One 
of  them  shall  have  one,  at  any  rate.  I  think 
this  will  buy  it,  and  it  is  so  handy  to  send. 
Nobody  would  know  that  there  was  money 
in  the  letter."  And  she  inclosed  a  coupon  in 
a  letter  to  a  professor,  a  friend  in  the  city, 
who,  she  knew,  would  have  no  trouble  in 
finding  the  child,  and  had  it  mailed  at  once. 
Mrs.  Lee  was  a  widow  whose  not  too  gi-eat 
income  was  derived  from  the  interest  on 
some  four-per-cent.  government  bonds  which 
represented  the  savings  of  her  husband's  life 
of  toil,  that  was  none  the  less  hard  because 

182 


THE  LITTLE  DOLLAR'S  JOURNEY     183 

it  was  spent  in  a  counting-room  and  not 
with  shovel  and  spade.  The  coupon  looked 
for  all  the  world  like  a  dollar  bill,  except  that 
it  was  so  small  that  a  baby's  hand  could 
easily  cover  it.  The  United  States,  the  print- 
ing on  it  said,  would  pay  on  demand  to  the 
bearer  one  dollar ;  and  there  was  a  number 
on  it,  just  as  on  a  full-groTNTi  doUar,  that  was 
the  number  of  the  bond  from  which  it  had 
been  cut. 

The  letter  traveled  all  night,  and  was  tossed 
and  sorted  and  bunched  at  the  end  of  its 
journey  in  the  great  gray  beehive  that  never 
sleeps,  day  or  night,  and  where  half  the  tears 
and  joys  of  the  land,  including  this  account 
of  the  little  dollar,  are  checked  off  unceas- 
ingly as  first-class  matter  or  second  or  third, 
as  the  case  may  be.  In  the  morning  it  was 
laid,  none  the  worse  for  its  journey,  at  the 
professor's  breakfast-plate.  The  professor 
was  a  kindly  man,  and  he  smiled  as  he  read 
it.  "To  procure  one  small  Christmas  tree 
for  a  poor  tenement,"  was  its  errand. 

"  Little  dollar,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I  know 
where  you  are  needed."  And  he  made  a  note 
in  his  book.  There  were  other  notes  there 
that  made  him  smile  again  as  he  saw  them. 
They  had  names  set  opposite   them.     One 


184  THE  LITTLE  DOLLAR'S 

about  a  Noah's  ark  was  marked  ^'Vivi." 
That  was  the  baby ;  and  there  was  one  about 
a  doll's  carriage  that  had  the  words  '^  Katie, 
sure,"  set  over  against  it.  The  professor 
eyed  the  list  in  mock  dismay. 

"How  ever  will  I  do  it?"  he  sighed,  as  he 
put  on  his  hat. 

"  Well,  you  will  have  to  get  Santa  Claus 
to  help  you,  John,"  said  his  wife,  buttoning 
his  greatcoat  about  him.  "And,  mercy !  the 
duckses'  babies !  don't  forget  them,  whatever 
you  do.  The  baby  has  been  talking  about 
nothing  else  since  he  saw  them  at  the  store, 
the  old  duck  and  the  two  ducklings  on 
wheels.     You  know  them,  John  ? " 

But  the  professor  was  gone,  repeating  to 
himseK  as  he  went  down  the  garden  walk : 
"  The  duckses'  babies,  indeed !  "  He  chuckled 
as  he  said  it,  why  I  cannot  tell.  He  was 
very  particular  about  his  grammar,  was  the 
professor,  ordinarily.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause it  was  Christmas  eve. 

Down-town  went  the  professor;  but  in- 
stead of  going  with  the  crowd  that  was  set- 
ting toward  Santa  Claus's  headquarters,  in 
the  big  Broadway  store,  he  turned  off  into  a 
quieter  street,  leading  west.  It  took  him  to  a 
narrow  thoroughfare,  with  five-story  tene- 


CHRISTMAS  JOURNEY  185 

ments  frowning  on  either  side,  where  the 
people  he  met  were  not  so  well  di'essed  as 
those  he  had  left  behind,  and  did  not  seem  to 
be  in  such  a  hurry  of  joyful  anticipation  of 
the  holiday.  Into  one  of  the  tenements  he 
went,  and,  groping  his  way  through  a  pitch- 
dark  hall,  came  to  a  door  'way  back,  the  last 
one  to  the  left,  at  which  he  knocked.  An 
expectant  voice  said,  ^'Come  in,"  and  the 
professor  pushed  open  the  door. 

The  room  was  very  small,  very  stuffy,  and 
very  dark,  so  dark  that  a  smoking  kerosene- 
lamp  that  burned  on  a  table  next  the  stove 
hardly  lighted  it  at  all,  though  it  was  broad 
day.  A  big,  unshaven  man,  who  sat  on  the 
bed,  rose  when  he  saw  the  visitor,  and  stood 
uncomfortably  shifting  his  feet  and  avoiding 
the  professor's  eye.  The  latter's  glance  was 
serious,  though  not  unkind,  as  he  asked  the 
woman  with  the  baby  if  he  had  found  no 
work  yet. 

"No,"  she  said,  anxiously  coming  to  the 
rescue,  "  not  yet ;  he  was  waitin'  for  a  recom- 
mend." But  Johnnie  had  earned  two  dollars 
running  errands,  and,  now  there  was  a  big 
fall  of  snow,  his  father  might  get  a  job  of 
shoveling.  The  woman's  face  was  worried, 
yet  there  was  a  cheerful  note  in  her  voice 


186  THE  LITTLE  DOLLAR'S 

that  someliow  made  the  place  seem  less  dis- 
couraging than  it  was.  The  baby  she  nursed 
was  not  much  larger  than  a  middle-sized  doll. 
Its  little  face  looked  thin  and  wan.  It  had 
been  very  sick,  she  explained,  but  the  doctor 
said  it  was  mending  now.  That  was  good, 
said  the  professor,  and  patted  one  of  the 
bigger  children  on  the  head. 

There  were  six  of  them,  of  all  sizes,  from 
Johnnie,  who  could  run  errands,  down.  They 
were  busy  fixing  up  a  Christmas  tree  that 
half  filled  the  room,  though  it  was  of  the 
very  smallest.  Yes,  it  was  a  real  Christ- 
mas tree,  left  over  from  the  Sunday-school 
stock,  and  it  was  dressed  up  at  that.  Pic- 
tures from  the  colored  supplement  of  a  Sun- 
day newspaper  hung  and  stood  on  every 
branch,  and  three  pieces  of  colored  glass,  sus- 
pended on  threads  that  shone  in  the  smoky 
lamplight,  lent  color  and  real  beauty  to  the 
show.     The  children  were  greatly  tickled. 

*'  John  put  it  up,"  said  the  mother,  by  way 
of  explanation,  as  the  professor  eyed  it  ap- 
pro vmgly.  "  There  ain^t  nothing  to  eat  on 
it.  If  there  was,  it  would  n't  be  there  a  min- 
ute.    The  childer  be  always  a-searchin'  in  it." 

"But  there  must  be,  or  else  it  is  n't  a 
real  Christmas  tree,"  said  the  professor,  and 


CHRISTMAS  JOURNEY  187 

brought  out  the  little  dollar.  '^This  is  a 
dollar  which  a  friend  gave  me  for  the  chil- 
dren's Christmas,  and  she  sends  her  love 
with  it.  Now,  you  buy  them  some  things 
and  a  few  candles,  Mrs.  Ferguson,  and  then 
a  good  supper  for  the  rest  of  the  family. 
Good  night,  and  a  Merry  Christmas  to  you. 
I  think  myself  the  baby  is  getting  better." 
It  had  just  opened  its  eyes  and  laughed  at 
the  tree. 

The  professor  was  not  very  far  on  his  way 
toward  keeping  his  appointment  with  Santa 
Claus  before  Mrs.  Ferguson  was  at  the  grocery 
lajdng  in  her  dinner.  A  dollar  goes  a  long 
way  when  it  is  the  only  one  in  the  house ; 
and  when  she  had  everything,  including  two 
cents'  worth  of  flitter-gold,  four  apples,  and 
five  candles  for  the  tree,  the  grocer  footed  up 
her  bill  on  the  bag  that  held  her  potatoes  — 
ninety-eight  cents.  Mrs.  Ferguson  gave  him 
the  little  dollar. 

''What  's  this?"  said  the  grocer,  his  fat 
smile  turning  cold  as  he  laid  a  restraining 
hand  on  the  full  basket.  ''That  ain't  no 
good." 

"  It 's  a  dollar,  ain't  it  ? "  said  the  woman,  in 
alarm.  "  It  's  all  right.  I  know  the  man 
that  give  it  to  me." 


188  THE  LITTLE  DOLLAR'S 

"  It  ain't  all  right  in  this  store,"  said  the 
grocer,  sternly.  "  Put  them  things  back.  I 
want  none  o'  that." 

The  woman's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she 
slowly  took  the  lid  off  the  basket  and  lifted 
out  the  precious  bag  of  potatoes.  They  were 
waiting  for  that  dinner  at  home.  The  chil- 
dren were  even  then  camping  on  the  door-step 
to  take  her  in  to  the  tree  in  triumph.  And 
now  — 

For  the  second  time  a  restraining  hand 
was  laid  upon  her  basket  j  but  this  time  it 
was  not  the  grocer's.  A  gentleman  who  had 
come  in  to  order  a  Christmas  turkey  had 
overheard  the  conversation,  and  had  seen  the 
strange  bill. 

'^It  is  all  right,"  he  said  to  the  grocer. 
''  Give  it  to  me.  Here  is  a  dollar  bill  for  it 
of  the  kind  you  know.  If  all  your  groceries 
were  as  honest  as  this  bill,  Mr.  Schmidt,  it 
would  be  a  pleasure  to  trade  with  you.  Don't 
be  afraid  to  trust  Uncle  Sam  where  you  see 
his  promise  to  pay." 

The  gentleman  held  the  door  open  for  Mrs. 
Ferguson,  and  heard  the  shout  of  the  dele- 
gation awaiting  her  on  the  stoop  as  he  went 
down  the  street. 

'^  I  wonder  where  that  came  from,  now,"  he 


CHRISTMAS  JOURNEY  189 

mused.  "  Coupons  in  Bedford  street !  I  sup- 
pose somebody  sent  it  to  the  woman  for  a 
Christmas  gift.  Hello  !  Here  are  old  Thomas 
and  Snowflake.  I  wonder  if  it  would  n't 
surprise  her  old  stomach  if  I  gave  her  a 
Christmas  gift  of  oats.  If  only  the  shock 
does  n't  kill  her !     Thomas !     Oh,  Thomas !  " 

The  old  man  thus  hailed  stopped  and 
awaited  the  gentleman's  coming.  He  was  a 
cartman  who  did  odd  jobs  through  the  ward, 
thus  picking  up  a  living  for  himself  and  the 
white  horse,  which  the  boys  had  dubbed 
Snowflake  in  a  spirit  of  fun.  They  were  a 
well-matched  old  pair,  Thomas  and  his  horse. 
One  was  not  more  decrepit  than  the  other. 
There  was  a  tradition  along  the  docks,  where 
Thomas  found  a  job  now  and  then,  and 
Snowflake  an  occasional  straw  to  lunch  on, 
that  they  were  of  an  age,  but  this  was  denied 
by  Thomas. 

"See  here,"  said  the  gentleman,  as  he 
caught  up  with  them ;  '^  I  want  Snowflake  to 
keep  Christmas,  Thomas.  Take  this  and  buy 
him  a  bag  of  oats.  And  give  it  to  him  care- 
fully, do  you  hear  1 — not  all  at  once,  Thomas. 
He  is  n't  used  to  it." 

"  Gee  whizz  !  "  said  the  old  man,  rubbing 
his  eyes  with  his  cap,  as  his  friend  passed 


190  THE  LITTLE  DOLLAR'S 

out  of  sight,  "  oats  fer  Christmas !  G'lang, 
Snowflake ;  yer  in  hick." 

The  feed-man  put  on  his  spectacles  and 
looked  Thomas  over  at  the  strange  order. 
Then  he  scanned  the  little  dollar,  jBirst  on  one 
side,  then  on  the  other. 

''Never  seed  one  like  him,"  he  said. 
"  'Pears  to  me  he  is  mighty  short.  Wait  till 
I  send  round  to  the  hockshop.  He  'U  know, 
if  anybody." 

The  man  at  the  pawnshop  did  not  need  a 
second  look.  "  Why,  of  course,"  he  said,  and 
handed  a  dollar  bill  over  the  counter.  ''  Old 
Thomas,  did  you  say  ?  Well,  I  am  blamed  if 
the  old  man  ain't  got  a  stocking  after  all. 
They  're  a  sly  pair,  he  and  Snowflake." 

Business  was  brisk  that  day  at  the  pawn- 
shop. The  door-bell  tinkled  early  and  late, 
and  the  stock  on  the  shelves  grew.  Bundle 
was  added  to  bundle.  It  had  been  a  hard 
winter  so  far.  Among  the  callers  in  the 
early  afternoon  was  a  young  girl  in  a  ging- 
ham dress  and  without  other  covering,  who 
stood  timidly  at  the  counter  and  asked  for 
three  dollars  on  a  watch,  a  keepsake  evi- 
dently, which  she  was  loath  to  part  with. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  last  glimpse  of  brighter 
days.    The  pawnbroker  was  doubtf ^il  j  it  was 


CHRISTMAS  JOURNEY  191 

not  worth  so  much.  She  pleaded  hard,  while 
he  compared  the  number  of  the  movement 
with  a  list  sent  in  from  Police  Headquarters. 

"  Two,"  he  said  decisively  at  last,  snapping 
the  case  shut— "two  or  nothing."  The  girl 
handed  over  the  watch  with  a  troubled  sigh. 
He  made  out  a  ticket  and  gave  it  to  her  with 
a  handful  of  silver  change. 

Was  it  the  sigh  and  her  evident  distress, 
or  was  it  the  little  dollar  1  As  she  turned  to 
go,  he  called  her  back : 

"Here,  it  is  Christmas!"  he  said.  "I  11 
run  the  risk."  And  he  added  the  coupon  to 
the  little  heap. 

The  girl  looked  at  it  and  at  him  question- 

"It  is  all  right,"  he  said ;  "you  can  take  it ; 
I  'm  running  short  of  change.  Bring  it  back 
if  they  won't  take  it.  I  'm  good  for  it." 
Uncle  Sam  had  achieved  a  backer. 

In  Grand  street  the  holiday  crowds  jammed 
every  store  in  their  eager  hunt  for  bar- 
gains. In  one  of  them,  at  the  knit-goods 
counter,  stood  the  girl  from  the  pawnshop, 
picking  out  a  thick,  warm  shawl.  She  hesi- 
tated between  a  gray  and  a  maroon-colored 
one,  and  held  them  up  to  the  light. 

"  For  you  ? "  asked  the  salesgirl,  thinking 


192  THE  LITTLE  DOLLAR'S 

to  aid  her.     She  glanced  at  her  thin  dress 
and  shivering  form  as  she  said  it. 

^^No,"  said  the  girl;  ''for  mother;  she  is 
poorly  and  needs  it.''  She  chose  the  gray, 
and  gave  the  salesgirl  her  handful  of  money. 

The  girl  gave  back  the  coupon. 

''They  don't  go/'  she  said;  "give  me  an- 
other, please." 

"  But  I  have  n't  got  another/'  said  the  girl, 
looking  apprehensively  at  the  shawl.  "  The 
— Mr.  Feeney  said  it  was  all  right.  Take  it 
to  the  desk,  please,  and  ask." 

The  salesgirl  took  the  bill  and  the  shawl, 
and  went  to  the  desk.  She  came  back,  al- 
most immediately,  with  the  storekeeper,  who 
looked  sharply  at  the  customer  and  noted 
the  number  of  the  coupon. 

"It  is  all  right,"  he  said,  satisfied  ap- 
parently by  the  inspection ;  "a  little  unusual, 
only.  We  don't  see  many  of  them.  Can  I 
help  you,  miss?"  And  he  attended  her  to 
the  door. 

In  the  street  there  was  even  more  of  a 
Christmas  show  going  on  than  in  the  stores. 
Peddlers  of  toys,  of  mottos,  of  candles,  and  of 
knickknacks  of  every  description  stood  in  rows 
along  the  curb,  and  were  driving  a  lively 
trade.     Their  push-carts  were  decorated  with 


CHRISTMAS  JOURNEY  193 

fir-branches— even  whole  Christmas  trees. 
One  held  a  whole  cargo  of  Santa  Clauses  in 
a  bower  of  green,  each  one  with  a  cedar-bush 
in  his  folded  arms,  as  a  soldier  carries  his 
gun.  The  lights  were  blazing  out  in  the 
stores,  and  the  hucksters'  torches  were  flar- 
ing at  the  corners.  There  was  Christmas  in 
the  very  air  and  Christmas  in  the  storekeep- 
er's till.  It  had  been  a  very  busy  day.  He 
thought  of  it  with  a  satisfied  nod  as  he  stood 
a  moment  breathing  the  brisk  air  of  the 
winter  day,  absently  fingering  the  coupon 
the  giii  had  paid  for  the  shawl.  A  thin  voice 
at  his  elbow  said :  "  Merry  Christmas,  Mr. 
Stein  !     Here  's  yer  paper." 

It  was  the  newsboy  who  left  the  evening 
papers  at  the  door  every  night.  The  store- 
keeper knew  him,  and  something  about  the 
struggle  they  had  at  home  to  keep  the  roof 
over  their  heads.  Mike  was  a  kind  of  pro- 
tege of  his.  He  had  helped  to  get  him  his 
route. 

''  Wait  a  bit,  Mike,"  he  said.  ''  You  'U  be 
wanting  your  Christmas  from  me.  Here 's  a 
dollar.  It  's  just  like  yourself :  it  is  small, 
but  it  is  all  right.  You  take  it  home  and 
have  a  good  time." 

Was  it  the  message  with  which  it  had  been 

13 


194  THE  LITTLE  DOLLAR'S 

sent  forth  from  far  away  in  the  country,  or 
what  was  it  ?  Whatever  it  was,  it  was  just 
impossible  for  the  little  dollar  to  lie  still  in 
the  pocket  while  there  was  want  to  be  re- 
lieved, mouths  to  be  filled,  or  Christmas  lights 
to  be  lit.     It  just  could  n't,  and  it  did  n't. 

Mike  stopped  around  the  corner  of  Allen 
street,  and  gave  three  whoops  expressive  of 
his  approval  of  Mr.  Stein  j  having  done  which, 
he  sidled  up  to  the  first  lighted  window  out 
of  range  to  examine  his  gift.  His  enthusiasm 
changed  to  open-mouthed  astonishment  as 
he  saw  the  little  dollar.  His  jaw  fell.  Mike 
was  not  much  of  a  scholar,  and  could  not 
make  out  the  inscription  on  the  coupon ;  but 
he  had  heard  of  shin-plasters  as  something 
they  '^  had  in  the  war,"  and  he  took  this  to 
be  some  sort  of  a  ten-cent  piece.  The  police- 
man on  the  block  might  tell.  Just  now  he 
and  Mike  were  hunk.  They  had  made  up 
a  little  difference  they  'd  had,  and  if  any 
one  would  know,  the  cop  surely  would.  And 
off  he  went  in  search  of  him. 

Mr.  McCarthy  pulled  off  his  gloves,  put  his 
club  under  his  arm,  and  studied  the  little 
dollar  with  contracted  brow.  He  shook  his 
head  as  he  handed  it  back,  and  rendered  the 
opinion  that  it  was  "  some  dom  swindle  that 's 


CHRISTMAS  JOURNEY  195 

ag'in'  the  law."  He  advised  Mike  to  take  it 
back  to  Mr.  Stein,  and  added,  as  lie  prodded 
him  in  an  entirely  friendly  manner  in  the 
ribs  with  his  locust,  that  if  it  had  been  the 
week  before  he  might  have  ^^run  him  in" 
for  having  the  thing  in  his  possession.  As  it 
happened,  Mr.  Stein  was  busy  and  not  to  be 
seen,  and  Mike  went  home  between  hope  and 
fear,  with  his  doubtful  prize. 

There  was  a  crowd  at  the  door  of  the  tene- 
ment, and  Mike  saw,  before  he  had  reached 
it,  running,  that  it  clustered  about  an  ambu- 
lance that  was  backed  up  to  the  sidewalk. 
Just  as  he  pushed  his  way  through  the  throng 
it  drove  off,  its  clanging  gong  scattering  the 
people  right  and  left.  A  little  girl  sat  weep- 
ing on  the  top  step  of  the  stoop.  To  her 
Mike  turned  for  information. 

"  Susie,  what  's  up  ? "  he  asked,  confront- 
ing her  with  his  armful  of  papers.  ^'  Who  's 
got  hurted  ? " 

"  It 's  papa,"  sobbed  the  girl.  '^  He  ain't 
hurted.  He  's  sick,  and  he  was  took  that  bad 
he  had  to  go,  an'  to-morrer  is  Christmas,  an' 
—oh,  Mike ! " 

It  is  not  the  fashion  of  Essex  street  to  slop 
over.  Mike  did  n't.  He  just  set  his  mouth 
to  a  whistle  and  took  a  turn  down  the  hall  to 


196  THE  LITTLE  DOLLAR'S 

think.  Susie  was  his  chum.  There  were 
seven  in  her  flat ;  in  his  only  four,  including 
two  that  made  wages.  He  came  back  from 
his  trip  with  his  mind  made  up. 

"  Suse/'  he  said,  '^  come  on  in.  You  take 
this,  Suse,  see !  an'  let  the  kids  have  their 
Christmas.  Mr.  Stein  give  it  to  me.  It  's 
a  little  one,  but  if  it  ain't  all  right  I  '11 
take  it  back,  and  get  one  that  is  good.  Go 
on,  now,  Suse,  you  hear?"  And  he  was 
gone. 

There  was  a  Christmas  tree  that  night  in 
Susie's  flat,  with  candles  and  apples  and  shin- 
ing gold  on,  but  the  little  dollar  did  not  pay 
for  it.  That  rested  securely  in  the  purse  of 
the  charity  visitor  who  had  come  that  after* 
noon,  just  at  the  right  time,  as  it  proved. 
She  had  heard  the  story  of  Mike  and  his 
sacrifice,  and  had  herself  given  the  children 
a  one-dollar  bill  for  the  coupon.  They  had 
their  Christmas,  and  a  joyful  one,  too,  for 
the  lady  went  up  to  the  hospital  and  brought 
back  word  that  Susie's  father  would  be  all 
right  with  rest  and  care,  which  he  was  now 
getting.  Mike  came  in  and  helped  them 
"  sack "  the  tree  when  the  lady  was  gone. 
He  gave  three  more  whoops  for  Mr.  Stein, 
three  for  the  lady,  and  three  for  the  hospital 


CHRISTMAS  JOURNEY  197 

doctor  to  even  things  up.     Essex  street  was 
all  right  that  night. 

"Do  you  know,  professor,"  said  that  learned 
man's  wdf e,  when,  after  supper,  he  had  settled 
down  in  his  easy-chair  to  admire  the  Noah's 
ark  and  the  duckses'  babies  and  the  rest,  all 
of  which  had  arrived  safely  by  express  ahead 
of  him  and  were  waiting  to  be  detailed  to 
their  appropriate  stockings  while  the  chil- 
dren slept— "do  you  know,  I  heard  such  a 
story  of  a  little  newsboy  to-day.  It  was  at 
the  meeting  of  our  district  charity  com- 
mittee this  evening.  Miss  Linder,  our  visitor, 
came  right  from  the  house."  And  she  told 
the  story  of  Mike  and  Susie. 

"And  I  just  got  the  little  dollar  bill  to 
keep.  Here  it  is."  She  took  the  coupon  out 
of  her  purse  and  passed  it  to  her  husband. 

"  Eh  !  what  1 "  said  the  professor,  adjust- 
ing his  spectacles  and  reading  the  number. 
"  If  here  is  n't  my  little  dollar  come  back  to 
me  !  Why,  where  have  you  been,  little  one  1 
I  left  you  in  Bedford  street  this  morning, 
and  here  you  come  by  way  of  Essex.  Well, 
I  declare  !  "  And  he  told  his  wife  how  he 
had  received  it  in  a  letter  in  the  morning. 

"John,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  impulse, — 


198     THE  LITTLE  DOLLAR'S  JOURNEY 

she  did  n't  know,  and  neither  did  he,  that  it 
was  the  charm  of  the  little  dollar  that  was 
working  again,  —  ''John,  I  guess  it  is  a  sin 
to  stop  it.  Jones's  children  won't  have  any 
Christmas  tree,  because  they  can't  afford  it. 
He  told  me  so  this  morning  when  he  fixed 
the  furnace.  And  the  baby  is  sick.  Let  us 
give  them  the  little  dollar.  He  is  here  in  the 
kitchen  now.'' 

And  they  did  -,  and  the  Joneses,  and  I  don't 
know  how  many  others,  had  a  Merry  Christ- 
mas because  of  the  blessed  little  dollar  that 
carried  Christmas  cheer  and  good  luck 
wherever  it  went.  For  all  I  know,  it  may 
be  going  yet.  Certainly  it  is  a  sin  to  stop  it, 
and  if  any  one  has  locked  it  up  without  know- 
ing that  he  locked  up  the  Christmas  dollar, 
let  him  start  it  right  out  again.  He  can  tell  it 
easily  enough.  If  he  just  looks  at  the  num- 
ber, that 's  the  one. 


A  PROPOSAL  ON  THE  ELEVATED 

THE  sleeper  on  the  3 :  35  a.  m.  elevated 
train  from  the  Harlem  bridge  was  awake 
for  once.  The  sleeper  is  the  last  car  in  the 
train,  and  has  its  own  set  that  snores  nightly 
in  the  same  seats,  grunts  with  the  fixed  in- 
hospitality  of  the  commuter  at  the  intrusion 
of  a  stranger,  and  is  on  terms  with  Conrad, 
the  German  conductor,  who  knows  each  one 
of  his  passengers  and  wakes  him  up  at  his 
station.  The  sleeper  is  unique.  It  is  run  for 
the  benefit  of  those  who  ride  in  it,  not  for  the 
company's.  It  not  only  puts  them  off  prop- 
erly ;  it  waits  for  them,  if  they  are  not  there. 
The  conductor  knows  that  they  will  come. 
They  are  men,  mostly,  with  small  homes  be- 
yond the  bridge,  whose  work  takes  them 
down-town  to  the  markets,  the  Post-office,  and 
the  busy  marts  of  the  city  long  before  cock- 

199 


200      A  PROPOSAL  ON  THE  ELEVATED 

crow.     The  day  begins  in  New  York  at  all 
liours. 

Usually  the  sleeper  is  all  that  its  name  im- 
plies, but  this  morning  it  was  as  far  from  it 
as  could  be.  A  party  of  young  people,  fresh 
from  a  neighborhood  hop,  had  come  on  board 
and  filled  the  rear  end  of  the  car.  Their  feet 
tripped  yet  to  the  dance,  and  snatches  of  the 
latest  waltz  floated  through  the  train  between 
peals  of  laughter  and  little  girlish  shrieks. 
The  regulars  glared,  discontented,  in  strange 
seats,  unable  to  go  to  sleep.  Only  the  rail- 
road yardmen  dropped  off  promptly  as  they 
came  in.  Theirs  was  the  shortest  ride,  and 
they  could  least  afford  to  lose  time.  Two 
old  Irishmen,  flanked  by  their  dinner-pails, 
gravely  discussed  the  Henry  George  campaign. 

Across  the  passage  sat  a  group  of  three 
apart— a  young  man,  a  girl,  and  a  little  elderly 
woman  with  lines  of  care  and  hard  work  in 
her  patient  face.  She  guarded  carefully 
three  umbrellas,  a  very  old  and  faded  one, 
and  two  that  were  new  and  of  silk,  which  she 
held  in  her  lap,  though  it  had  not  rained  for 
a  month.  He  was  a  likely  young  fellow,  tall 
and  straight,  with  the  thoughtful  eye  of  a 
student.  His  dark  hair  fell  nearly  to  his 
shoulders,  and  his  coat  had  a  foreign  cut. 


A  PROPOSAL  ON  THE  ELEVATED      201 

The  girl  was  a  typical  child  of  the  city,  slight 
and  graceful  of  form,  dressed  in  good  taste, 
and  with  a  bright,  winning  face.  The  two 
chatted  confidentially  together,  forgetful  of 
all  else,  while  mama,  between  them,  nodded 
sleepily  in  her  seat. 

A  sudden  burst  of  white  light  flooded  the 
car. 

''  Hey  !  Ninety-ninth  street !  "  called  the 
conductor,  and  rattled  the  door.  The  railroad 
men  tumbled  out  pell-mell,  all  but  one.  Con- 
rad shook  him,  and  he  went  out,  mechanically 
bhnking  his  eyes. 

"  Eighty-ninth  next !  "  from  the  doorway. 

The  laughter  at  the  rear  end  of  the  car  had 
died  out.  The  young  people,  in  a  quieter 
mood,  were  humming  a  popular  love-song. 
Presently  above  the  rest  rose  a  clear  tenor : 

Oh,  promise  me  that  some  day  you  and  I 
Will  take  our  love  together  to  some  sky 
"Where  we  can  be  alone  and  faith  renew — 

The  clatter  of  the  train  as  it  flew  over  a 
switch  drowned  the  rest.  When  the  last 
wheel  had  banged  upon  the  frog,  I  heard  the 
young  student's  voice,  in  the  soft  accents  of 
southern  Europe : 

'^Wenn  ich  in  Wien  war—"    He  was  tell- 


202      A  PROPOSAL  ON  THE  ELEVATED 

ing  her  of  his  home  and  his  people  in  the 
language  of  his  childhood.  I  glanced  across. 
She  sat  listening  with  kindling  eyes.  Mama 
slumbered  sweetly;  her  worn  old  hands 
clutched  unconsciously  the  umbrellas  in  her 
lap.  The  two  Irishmen,  having  settled  the 
campaign,  had  dropped  to  sleep,  too.  In  the 
crowded  car  the  two  were  alone.  His  hand 
sought  hers  and  met  it  half-way. 

'^  Forty-seventh !  "  There  was  a  clatter  of 
tin  cans  below.  The  contingent  of  milkmen 
scrambled  out  of  their  seats  and  off  for  the 
depot.  In  the  luU  that  followed  their  going, 
the  tenor  rose  from  the  last  seat : 

Those  first  sweet  violets  of  early  spring, 
Wliieli  come  in  whispers,  thrill  us  both,  and  sing 
Of  love  unspeakable  that  is  to  be, 
Oh,  promise  me  !     Oh,  promise  me  ! 

The  two  young  people  faced  each  other. 
He  had  thrown  his  hat  upon  the  seat  beside 
him  and  held  her  hand  fast,  gesticulating 
with  his  free  hand  as  he  spoke  rapidly,  elo- 
quently, eagerly  of  his  prospects  and  his 
hopes.  Her  own  toyed  nervously  with  his 
coat-lapel,  twisting  and  twirling  a  button  as 
he  went  on.  What  he  said  might  have  been 
heard  to  the  other  end  of  the  car,  had  there 


A  PROPOSAL  ON  THE  ELEVATED       203 

been  anybody  to  listen.  He  was  to  live  here 
always ;  his  uncle  would  open  a  business  in 
New  York,  of  which  he  was  to  have  charge, 
when  he  had  learned  to  know  the  country  and 
its  people.  It  would  not  be  long  now,  and 
then— and  then — 

''  Twenty-thu-d  street !  " 

There  was  a  long  stop  after  the  levy  for 
the  ferries  had  left.  The  conductor  went  out 
on  the  platform  and  consulted  with  the  ticket- 
chopper.  He  was  scrutinizing  his  watch  for 
the  second  time,  when  the  faint  jingle  of  an 
east-bound  car  was  heard. 

''  Here  she  comes !  "  said  the  ticket-chopper. 
A  shout,  and  a  man  bounded  up  the  steps, 
three  at  a  time.  It  was  an  engineer  who, 
to  make  connection  with  his  locomotive  at 
Chatham  Square,  must  catch  that  traii/^ 

'^ Hullo,  Conrad!  Nearly  missed  y^ju,"  he 
said  as  he  jumped  on  the  car,  breathless. 

"  All  right.  Jack."  And  the  conductor  jerked 
the  beU-rope.  "  You  made  it,  though."  The 
train  sped  on. 

Two  lives,  heretofore  running  apart,  were 
hastening  to  a  union.  The  lovers  had  seen 
nothing,  heard  nothing  but  each  other.  His 
eyes  bui'ned  as  hers  met  his  and  fell  before 
them.     His  head  bent  lower  until  his  face  al- 


204      A  PROPOSAL  ON  THE  ELEVATED 

most  toiicliecl  hers.  His  dark  hair  lay  against 
her  blond  curls.  The  ostrich  feather  on  her 
hat  swept  his  shoulder. 

"Mogtest  Du  mich  haben?"  he  entreated. 

Above  the  grinding  of  the  wheels  as  the 
train  slowed  up  for  the  station  a  block  ahead, 
pleaded  the  tenor : 

Oh,  promise  me  that  you  will  take  my  hand, 
The  most  unworthy  in  this  lonely  land- 
Did  she  speak  ?  Her  face  was  hidden,  but 
the  blond  curls  moved  with  a  nod  so  slight 
that  only  a  lover's  eye  could  see  it.  He  seized 
her  disengaged  hand.  The  conductor  stuck 
his  head  into  the  car. 

"  Fourteenth  street !  " 

A  squad  of  stout,  florid  men  with  butchers' 
aprons  started  for  the  door.  The  girl  arose 
hastily. 

"  Mama !  "  she  called,  "  steh'  auf !  Es  ist 
Fourteenth  street." 

The  little  woman  woke  up,  gathered  the 
umbrellas  in  her  arms,  and  bustled  after  the 
marketmen,  her  daughter  leading  the  way.  He 
sat  as  one  dreaming. 

'^  Ach ! "  he  sighed,  and  ran  his  hand 
through  his  dark  hair,  '^  so  rasch !  " 

And  he  went  out  after  them. 


DEATH  COMES  TO  CAT  ALLEY 

THE  dead-wagon  stopped  at  tlie  mouth 
of  Cat  Alley.  Its  coming  made  a  com- 
motion among  the  children  in  the  block,  and 
the  Chief  of  Police  looked  out  of  his  window 
across  the  street,  his  attention  arrested  by 
the  noise.  He  saw  a  little  pine  coffin  carried 
into  the  alley  under  the  arm  of  the  driver, 
a  shoal  of  ragged  children  trailing  behind. 
After  a  while  the  driver  carried  it  out  again, 
shoved  it  in  the  wagon,  where  there  were 
other  boxes  like  it,  and,  slamming  the  door, 
drove  off. 

A  red-eyed  woman  watched  it  down  the 
street  until  it  disappeared  around  the  corner. 
Then  she  wiped  her  eyes  with  her  apron  and 
went  in. 

It  was  only  Mary  Welsh's  baby  that  was 
dead,  but  to  her  the  alley,  never  cheerful  on 

205 


206   DEATH  COMES  TO  CAT  ALLEY 

the  brightest  of  days,  seemed  hopelessly  deso- 
late to-day.  It  was  all  she  had.  Her  first 
baby  died  in  teething. 

Cat  Alley  is  a  back-yard  illustration  of  the 
theory  of  evolution.  The  fittest  survive,  and 
the  Welsh  babies  were  not  among  them.  It 
would  be  strange  if  they  were.  Mike,  the 
father,  works  in  a  Crosby-street  factory  when 
he  does  work.  It  is  necessary  to  put  it  that 
way,  for,  though  he  has  not  been  discharged, 
he  had  only  one  day's  work  this  week  and 
none  at  all  last  week.  He  gets  one  doUar  a 
day,  and  the  one  dollar  he  earned  these  last 
two  weeks  his  wife  had  to  draw  to  pay  the 
doctor  with  when  the  baby  was  so  sick.  They 
have  had  nothing  else  coming  in,  and  but  for 
the  wages  of  Mrs.  Welsh's  father,  who  lives 
with  them,  there  would  have  been  nothing  in 
the  house  to  eat. 

The  baby  came  three  weeks  ago,  right  in 
the  hardest  of  the  hard  times.  It  was  never 
strong  enough  to  nurse,  and  the  milk  bought 
in  Mulberry  street  is  not  for  babies  to  grow 
on  who  are  not  strong  enough  to  stand  any- 
thing. Little  John  never  gre^y  at  all.  He 
lay  upon  his  pillow  this  morning  as  white 
and  wan  and  tiny  as  the  day  he  came  into  a 
world  that  did  n't  want  him. 


DEATH  COMES  TO  CAT  ALLEY   207 

Yesterday,  just  before  lie  died,  lie  sat  upon 
his  grandmother's  lap  and  laughed  and  crowed 
for  the  first  time  in  his  brief  life,  ^' just  like 
he  was  talkin'  to  me,"  said  the  old  woman, 
with  a  smile  that  struggled  hard  to  keep 
down  a  sob.  ^'  I  suppose  it  was  a  sort  of  in- 
ward cramp,"  she  added— a  mother's  explana- 
tion of  baby  laugh  in  Cat  Alley. 

The  mother  laid  out  the  little  body  on  the 
only  table  in  their  room,  in  its  only  little 
white  slip,  and  covered  it  with  a  piece  of  dis- 
carded lace  curtain  to  keep  off  the  flies.  They 
had  no  ice,  and  no  money  to  pay  an  under- 
taker for  opening  the  little  grave  in  Calvary, 
where  their  first  baby  lay.  All  night  she  sat 
by  the  improvised  bier,  her  tears  dropping 
silently. 

When  morning  came  and  brought  the 
woman  with  the  broken  arm  from  across  the 
hall  to  sit  by  her,  it  was  sadly  evident  that 
the  burial  of  the  child  must  be  hastened.  It 
was  not  well  to  look  at  the  little  face  and  the 
crossed  baby  hands,  and  even  the  mother 
saw  it. 

''  Let  the  trench  take  him,  in  God's  name ; 
he  has  his  soul,"  said  the  grandmother,  cross- 
ing herself  devoutly. 

An  undertaker  had  promised  to  put  the 


208    DEATH  COMES  TO  CAT  ALLEY 

baby  in  the  grave  in  Calvary  for  twelve 
dollars  and  take  two  dollars  a  week  until  it 
was  paid.  But  how  can  a  man  raise  two 
dollars  a  week,  with  only  one  coming  in  in 
two  weeks,  and  that  gone  to  the  doctor  ?  With 
a  sigh  Mike  Welsh  went  for  the  ''lines"  that 
must  smooth  its  way  to  the  trench  in  the 
Potter's  Field,  and  then  to  Mr.  Blake's  for 
the  dead- wagon.  It  was  the  hardest  walk  of 
his  life. 

And  so  it  happened  that  the  dead-wagon 
halted  at  Cat  Alley  and  that  little  John  took 
his  first  and  last  ride.  A  little  cross  and  a 
number  on  the  pine  box,  cut  in  the  lid  with  a 
chisel,  and  his  brief  history  was  closed,  with 
only  the  memory  of  the  little  life  remaining 
to  the  Welshes  to  help  them  fight  the  battle 
alone. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  the  dead- 
lamp  burned  dimly  at  the  bottom  of  the  alley, 
a  policeman  brought  to  Police  Headquarters 
a  wailing  child,  an  outcast  found  in  the  area 
of  a  Lexington-avenue  house  by  a  citizen,  who 
handed  it  over  to  the  police.  Until  its  cries 
were  smothered  in  the  police  nursery  up-stairs 
with  the  ever-ready  bottle,  they  reached  the 
bereaved  mother  in  Cat  Alley  and  made  her 
tears  drop  faster.     As  the  dead- wagon  di'ove 


DEATH  COMES  TO  CAT  ALLEY   209 

away  with  its  load  in  the  morning,  Matron 
Travers  came  out  with  the  now  sleeping  waif 
in  her  arms.  She,  too,  was  bound  for  Mr. 
Blake's. 

The  two  took  their  ride  on  the  same  boat 
— the  living  child,  whom  no  one  wanted,  to 
Randall's  Island,  to  be  enlisted  with  its  num- 
ber in  the  army  of  the  city's  waifs,  strong 
and  able  to  fight  its  way ;  the  dead,  for  whom 
a  mother's  heart  yearns,  to  its  place  in  the 
great  ditch. 


u 


WHY  IT  HAPPENED 

YOM  KIPPUR  being  at  hand,  all  the  East 
Side  was  undergoing  a  scrubbing,  the 
people  included.  It  is  part  of  the  religious 
observance  of  the  chief  Jewish  holiday  that 
every  worshiper  presenting  himself  at  the 
synagogue  to  be  cleansed  from  sin  must  first 
have  washed  his  body  clean. 

Hence  the  numerous  tenement  bath-houses 
on  the  East  Side  are  run  night  and  day  in 
Yom  Kippur  week  to  their  full  capacity. 
There  are  so  many  more  people  than  tubs  that 
there  is  no  rest  for  the  attendants  even  in  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning. 

They  are  not  palatial  establishments  exactly, 
these  mikweJis  (bath-houses).  Most  of  them 
are  in  keeping  with  the  tenements  that  har- 
bor them;  but  they  fill  the  bill.  One,  at  20 
Orchard  street,  has  even  a  Tui-kish  and  a 
Russian  attachment.     It  is  one  of  the  most 

210 


WHY  IT   HAPPENED  211 

pretentious.  For  thirty-five  cents  one  can  be 
roasted  by  dry  heat  or  boiled  with  steam. 
The  unhappy  experience  of  Jacob  Epstein 
shows  that  it  is  even  possible  to  be  boiled 
literally  and  in  earnest  in  hot  water  at  the 
same  price.  He  chose  that  way  unwittingly, 
and  the  choice  came  near  causing  a  riot. 

Epstein  came  to  the  bath-house  with  a 
party  of  friends  at  2  a.  m.,  in  quest  of  a  Rus- 
sian bath.  They  had  been  steamed,  and  were 
disporting  themselves  to  their  heart's  content 
w^hen  the  thing  befell  the  tailor.  Epstein  is 
a  tailor.  He  went  to  get  a  shower-bath  in  a 
pail,— where  Russian  baths  are  got  for  thirty- 
five  cents  they  are  got  partly  by  hand,  as  it 
were,— and  in  the  dim,  religious  light  of  the 
room,  the  small  gas-jet  struggling  ineffectually 
with  the  steam  and  darkness,  he  mistook  the 
hot- water  faucet  for  the  cold.  He  found  out 
his  mistake  when  he  raised  the  pail  and  poured 
a  flood  of  boiling  water  over  himself. 

Then  his  shrieks  filled  the  house.  His 
companions  paused  in  amazement,  and  beheld 
the  tailor  dancing  on  one  foot  and  on  the 
other  by  turns,  yelling : 

''  Weh  !     Weh  !     Ich  bin  verbrennt !  " 

They  thought  he  had  gone  suddenly  mad, 
and  joined  in  the  lamentation,  till  one  of  them 


212  WHY   IT  HAPPENED 

saw  his  skin  red  and  parboiled  and  raising 
big  blisters.  Then  they  ran  with  a  common 
accord  for  their  own  cold-water  pails,  and  pur- 
sued him,  seeking  to  dash  their  contents  over 
him. 

But  the  tailor,  frantic  with  pain,  thought, 
if  he  thought  at  all,  that  he  was  going  to  be 
killed,  and  yelled  louder  than  ever.  His 
companions'  shouts,  joined  to  his,  were  heard 
in  the  street,  and  there  promptly  gathered 
a  wailing  throng  that  echoed  the  *'Weh! 
Weh !  "  from  within,  and  exchanged  opinions 
between  their  laments  as  to  who  was  being 
killed,  and  why. 

Policeman  Schulem  came  just  in  time  to 
prevent  a  general  panic  and  restore  peace. 

Schulem  is  a  valuable  man  on  the  East  Side. 
His  name  alone  is  enough.  It  signifies  peace 
—  peace  in  the  language  of  Ludlow  street. 
The  crowd  melted  away,  and  the  tailor  was 
taken  to  the  hospital,  bewailing  his  bad  luck. 

The  bath-house  keeper  was  an  indignant 
and  injured  man.     His  business  was  hurt. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ? "  he  said.  "  It  hap- 
pened because  he  is  a  schlemiehl.  Teufel!  he  ^s 
worse  than  a  schlemiehl ;  he  is  a  chammer." 

Which  accounts  for  it,  of  course,  and  ex- 
plains everything. 


THE    CHMSTENINa    IN    BOTTLE 
ALLEY 

ALL  Bottle  Alley  was  bidden  to  the  chris- 
JIjL  tening.  It  being  Sunday, when  Mulberry 
street  was  wont  to  adjust  its  differences  over 
the  cards  and  the  wine-cup,  it  came  '^  heeled/' 
ready  for  what  might  befall.  From  Tomaso, 
the  rag-picker  in  the  farthest  rear  cellar,  to 
the  Signor  Undertaker,  mainstay  and  umpire 
in  the  varying  affairs  of  life,  which  had  a 
habit  in  the  Bend  of  lapsing  suddenly  upon 
his  professional  domain,  they  were  all  there, 
the  men  of  Malpete's  village.  The  baby  was 
named  for  the  village  saint,  so  that  it  was 
a  kind  of  communal  feast  as  well.  Carmen 
was  there  with  her  man,  and  Francisco  Ces- 
sari. 

If  Carmen  had  any  other  name,  neither 
Mulberry  street  nor  the  alley  knew  it.     She 

213 


214    THE  CHRISTENING  IN  BOTTLE  ALLEY 

was  Carmen  to  them  when,  seven  years  before, 
she  had  taken  np  with  Francisco,  then  a 
young  mountaineer  straight  as  the  cedar  of 
his  native  hills,  the  breath  of  which  was  yet 
in  the  songs  with  which  he  wooed  her. 
Whether  the  priest  had  blessed  their  bonds 
no  one  knew  or  asked.  The  Bend  only  knew 
that  one  day,  after  three  years  during  which 
the  Francisco  tenement  had  been  the  scene  of 
more  than  one  jealous  quarrel,  not,  it  was 
whispered, without  cause,  the  mountaineer  was 
missing.  He  did  not  come  back.  From  over 
the  sea  the  Bend  heard,  after  a  while,  that 
he  had  reappeared  in  the  old  village  to  claim 
the  sweetheart  he  had  left  behind.  In  the 
course  of  time  new  arrivals  brought  the  news 
that  Francisco  was  married  and  that  they  were 
living  happily,  as  a  young  couple  should. 
At  the  news  Mulberry  street  looked  askance 
at  Carmen;  but  she  gave  no  sign.  By  tacit 
consent,  she  was  the  Widow  Carmen  after  that. 
The  summers  passed.  The  fourth  brought 
Francisco  Cessari,  come  back  to  seek  his  for- 
tune, with  his  wife  and  baby.  He  greeted 
old  friends  effusively  and  made  cautious  in- 
quiries about  Carmen.  When  told  that  she 
had  consoled  herself  with  his  old  rival,  Luigi, 
with  whom   she  was  then  living  in  Bottle 


THE  CHRISTENING  IN  BOTTLE  ALLEY    215 

Alley,  he  laughed  with  a  light  heart,  and  took 
up  his  abode  within  half  a  dozen  doors  of  the 
alley.  That  was  but  a  short  time  before  the 
christening  at  IMalpete's.  There  their  paths 
crossed  each  other  for  the  first  time  since  his 
flight. 

She  met  him  with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  but 
with  hate  in  her  heart.  He,  manlike,  saw  only 
the  smile.  The  men  smoking  and  drinking 
in  the  court  watched  them  speak  apart,  saw 
him,  with  the  laugh  that  sat  so  lightly  upon 
his  lips,  turn  to  his  wife,  sitting  by  the  hy- 
drant with  the  child,  and  heard  him  say: 
''  Look,  Carmen  !  our  baby !  " 

The  woman  bent  over  it,  and,  as  she  did,  the 
little  one  woke  suddenly  out  of  its  sleep  and 
cried  out  in  affright.  It  was  noticed  that 
Carmen  smiled  again  then,  and  that  the  young 
mother  shivered,  why  she  herself  could  not 
have  told.  Francisco,  joining  the  group  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  yard,  said  carelessly  that 
she  had  forgotten.  They  poked  fun  at  him 
and  spoke  Carmen's  name  loudly,  with 
laughter. 

From  the  tenement,  as  they  did,  came 
Luigi  and  asked  threateningly  who  insulted 
his  wife.  They  only  laughed  the  more,  said 
he  had  drunk  too  much  wine,  and,  shoulder- 


216     THE  CHRISTENING  IN  BOTTLE  ALLEY 

ing  him  out,  bade  him  go  look  to  his  woman. 
He  went.  Carmen  had  witnessed  it  all  from 
the  house.  She  called  him  a  coward  and 
goaded  him  with  bitter  taunts,  until,  mad  with 
anger  and  drink,  he  went  out  in  the  court 
once  more  and  shook  his  fist  in  the  face  of 
Francisco.  They  hailed  his  return  with  ban- 
tering words.  Luigi  was  spoiling  for  a  fight, 
they  laughed,  and  would  find  one  before  the 
day  was  much  older.  But  suddenly  silence 
fell  upon  the  group.  Carmen  stood  on  the 
step,  pale  and  cold.  She  hid  something  under 
her  apron. 

"  Luigi !  "  she  called,  and  he  came  to  her. 
She  drew  from  under  the  apron  a  cocked  pis- 
tol, and,  pointing  to  Francisco,  pushed  it  into 
his  hand.  At  the  sight  the  alley  was  cleared 
as  suddenly  as  if  a  tornado  had  swept  through 
it.  Malpete's  guests  leaped  over  fences,  dived 
into  cellarwaj'S,  anywhere  for  shelter.  The 
door  of  the  woodshed  slammed  behind  Fran- 
cisco just  as  his  old  rival  reached  it.  The 
maddened  man  tore  it  open  and  dragged  him 
out  by  the  throat.  He  pinned  him  against 
the  fence,  and  leveled  the  pistol  with  frenzied 
curses.  They  died  on  his  lips.  The  face 
that  was  turning  livid  in  his  grasp  was  the 
face  of  his  boyhood's  friend.     They  had  gone 


THE  CHRISTENING  IN  BOTTLE  ALLEY    217 

to  school  together,  danced  together  at  the 
fairs  in  the  old  days.  They  had  been  friends 
—till  Carmen  came.  The  muzzle  of  the 
weapon  fell. 

''  Shoot !  "  said  a  hard  voice  behind  him. 
Carmen  stood  there  with  face  of  stone.  She 
stamped  her  foot.  "  Shoot !  "  she  commanded, 
pointing,  relentless,  at  the  struggling  man. 
''  Coward,  shoot ! '' 

Her  lover's  finger  crooked  itself  upon  the 
trigger.  A  shriek,  wild  and  despairing,  rang 
through  the  alley.  A  woman  ran  madly  from 
the  house,  flew  across  the  pavement,  and  fell 
panting  at  Carmen's  feet. 

"  Mother  of  God !  mercy !  "  she  cried,  thrust- 
ing her  babe  before  the  assassin's  weapon. 
"  Jesus  Maria !  Carmen,  the  child  !  He  is  my 
husband ! " 

No  gleam  of  pity  came  into  the  cold  eyes. 
Only  hatred,  fierce  and  bitter,  was  there.  In 
one  swift,  sweeping  glance  she  saw  it  all :  the 
woman  fawning  at  her  feet,  the  man  she  hated 
limp  and  helpless  in  the  grasp  of  her  lover. 

''  He  was  mine  once,"  she  said,  "  and  he  had 
no  mercy."  She  pushed  the  baby  aside. 
"  Coward,  shoot !  " 

The  shot  was  drowned  in  the  shriek,  hope- 
less, despairing,  of  the  widow  who  fell  upon 


218     THE  CHRISTENING  IN  BOTTLE  ALLEY 

the  body  of  Francisco  as  it  slipped  lifeless 
from  the  grasp  of  the  assassin.  The  chris- 
tening party  saw  Carmen  standing  over  the 
three  with  the  same  pale  smile  on  her  cruel 
lips. 

For  once  the  Bend  did  not  shield  a  murderer. 
The  door  of  the  tenement  was  shut  against 
him.  The  women  spurned  him.  The  very 
children  spat  at  him  as  he  fled  to  the  street. 
The  police  took  him  there.  With  him  they 
seized  Carmen.  She  made  no  attempt  to 
escape.  She  had  bided  her  time,  and  it  had 
come.  She  had  her  revenge.  To  the  end  of 
its  lurid  life  Bottle  AUey  remembered  it  as 
the  murder  accursed  of  God. 


IN  THE  MULBERRY  STREET 
COURT 

"/CONDUCT  unbecoming  an  officer/'  read 
\J  tlie  charge,  "  in  this,  to  wit,  that  the  said 
defendants  brought  into  the  station-house,  by 
means  to  deponent  unknown,  on  the  said 
Fourth  of  July,  a  keg  of  beer,  and,  when  ap- 
prehended, were  consuming  the  contents  of 
the  same."  Twenty  policemen,  comprising 
the  whole  off  platoon  of  the  East  One  Hun- 
dred and  Fourth  street  squad,  answered  the 
charge  as  defendants.  They  had  been  caught 
grouped  about  a  pot  of  chowder  and  the  fatal 
keg  in  the  top-floor  dormitory,  singing,  "  Beer, 
beer,  glorious  beer !  "  Sergeant  McNally  and 
Roundsman  Stevenson  iuteiTupted  the  pro- 
ceedings. 

The  commissioner's  eyes  bulged  as,  at  the 
caU  of  the  complaint  clerk,  the  twenty  marched 

219 


220      IN  THE  MULBERRY  STREET  COURT 

up  and  ranged  themselves  in  rows,  three  deep, 
before  him. 

They  took  the  oath  collectively,  with  a  toss 
and  a  smack,  as  if  to  say,  "I  don't  care  if  I 
do,"  and  told  separately  and  identically  the 
same  story,  while  the  sergeant  stared  and 
the  commissioner's  eyes  grew  bigger  and 
rounder. 

Missing  his  reserves.  Sergeant  McNally  had 
sent  the  roundsman  in  search  of  them.  He 
was  slow  in  returning,  and  the  sergeant  went 
on  a  tour  of  inspection  himself.  He  jour- 
neyed to  the  upper  region,  and  there  came 
upon  the  party  in  full  swing.  Then  and 
there  he  called  the  roll.  Not  one  of  the  pla- 
toon was  missing. 

They  formed  a  hollow  square  around  some- 
thing that  looked  uncommonly  like  a  beer- 
keg.  A  number  of  tin  growlers  stood  beside 
it.  The  sergeant  picked  up  one  and  turned 
the  tap.  There  was  enough  left  in  the  keg  to 
barely  half  fill  it.  Seeing  that,  the  platoon 
followed  him  down-stairs  without  a  murmur. 

One  by  one  the  twenty  took  the  stand  after 
the  sergeant  had  left  it,  and  testified  without 
a  tremor  that  they  had  seen  no  beer-keg.  In 
fact,  the  majority  would  not  know  one  if  they 
saw  it.     They  were  tired  and  hungry,  having 


IN  THE  MULBERRY  STREET  COURT      221 

been  held  in  reserve  all  day^  when  a  pleasant 
smell  assailed  their  nostrils. 

Each  of  the  twenty  followed  his  nose  inde- 
pendently to  the  top  floor,  where  he  was  sur- 
prised to  see  the  rest  gathered  about  a  pot  of 
steaming  chowder.  He  joined  the  circle  and 
partook  of  some.  It  was  good.  As  to  beer, 
he  had  seen  none  and  di'unk  less.  There  was 
something  there  of  wood  with  a  brass  handle 
to  it.  What  it  was  none  of  them  seemed  to 
know.  They  were  all  shocked  at  the  idea  that 
it  might  have  been  a  beer-keg.  Such  things 
are  forbidden  in  police  stations. 

The  sergeant  himself  could  not  tell  how  it 
could  have  got  in  there,  while  stoutly  main- 
taining that  it  was  a  keg.  He  scratched  his 
head  and  concluded  that  it  might  have  come 
over  the  roof  or,  somehow,  from  a  building 
that  is  in  course  of  erection  next  door.  The 
chowder  had  come  in  by  the  main  door.  At 
least,  one  policeman  had  seen  it  canied  up- 
stairs. He  had  fallen  in  behind  it  immedi- 
ately. 

When  the  commissioner  had  heard  this 
story  told  exactly  twenty  times  the  platoon 
fell  in  and  marched  off  to  the  elevated  station. 
When  he  can  decide  what  punishment  to 
inflict  on  a  policeman  who  does  not  know 


222      IN  THE  MULBERRY  STREET  COURT 

a  beer-keg  when  he  sees  it,  they  all  will  be 
fined  accordingly,  and  a  door-man  who  has 
served  a  term  as  a  barkeeper  will  be  sent  to 
the  East  One  Hundred  and  Fourth  street 
station  to  keep  the  police  there  out  of  harm^s 
way. 


SPOONING  IN  DYNAMITE  ALLEY 

• 

DYNAMITE  ALLEY  is  bereft.  Its  spring 
spooning  is  over.  Once  more  the  growler 
has  the  right  of  way.  But  what  good  is  it, 
with  Kate  Cassidy  hiding  in  her  third  floor 
back,  her  "steady"  hiding  from  the  police, 
and  Tom  Hart  laid  np  in  hospital  with  two  of 
his  "  slats  stove  in,"  aU  along  of  their  "  spiel- 
ing "  ?  There  wiU  be  nothing  now  to  heave  a 
brick  at  on  a  dark  night,  and  no  chance  for 
a  row  for  many  a  day  to  come.  No  wonder 
Dynamite  Alley  is  out  of  sorts. 

It  got  its  name  from  the  many  rows  that 
traveled  in  the  wake  of  the  growler  out  and 
in  at  the  three-foot  gap  between  brick  walls, 
which  was  a  garden  walk  when  the  front 
house  was  young  and  pansies  and  spiderwort 
grew  in  the  back  lot.  These  many  years  a 
tenement  has  stood  there,  and  as  it  grew 

223 


224        SPOONING  IN  DYNAMITE  ALLEY 

older  and  more  dilapidated,  rows  multiplied 
and  grew  noisier,  until  the  explosive  name 
was  hooked  to  the  alley  by  the  neighbors, 
and  stuck.  It  was  long  after  that  that  the 
Cassidys,  father  and  daughter,  came  to  live  in 
it,  and  also  the  Harts.  Their  coming  wrought 
no  appreciable  change,  except  that  it  added 
another  and  powerful  one  to  the  djTiamic 
forces  of  the  alley— jealousy.  Kate  is  pretty. 
She  is  blonde  and  she  is  twenty.  She 
greases  plates  in  a  pie  bakery  in  Sullivan 
street  by  day,  and  so  earns  her  own  living. 
Of  course  she  is  a  favorite.  There  is  n't  a 
ball  going  on  that  she  does  n't  attend,  or  a 
picnic  either.  It  was  at  one  of  them,  the  last 
of  the  Hounds'  balls,  that  she  met  George 
Finnegan. 

There  were  n't  many  hours  after  that  when 
they  did  n't  meet.  He  made  the  alley  his 
headquarters  by  day  and  by  night.  On  the 
morning  after  the  ball  he  scandalized  it  by 
spooning  with  Kate  from  daybreak  till  nine 
o'clock.  By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  he 
was  back  again,  and  all  night,  till  every  one 
was  asleep,  he  and  Kate  held  the  alley  by 
main  strength,  as  it  were,  the  fact  being  that 
when  they  were  in  it  no  one  could  pass. 
Their  spooning  blocked  it,  blocked  the  way 


SPOONING  IN  DYNAMITE  ALLEY        225 

of  the  groTvler.  The  alley  called  it  mean,  and 
trouble  began  promptly. 

After  that  things  fell  by  accident  out  of  the 
windows  of  the  rear  tenement  when  Kate  and 
George  Finnegan  were  sitting  in  the  doorway. 
They  tried  to  reduce  the  chances  of  a  hit  as 
much  as  might  be  by  squeezing  into  the  space 
of  one,  at  which  the  alley  jeered.  Sometimes 
one  of  the  tenants  would  jostle  them  in  the 
yard  and  ^'  give  lip,"  in  the  alley's  vernacular, 
and  Kate  would  retort  with  dignity :  "  Ex- 
cuse yerself .  Ye  don't  know  who  yer  talkin' 
to." 

It  had  to  come  to  it,  and  it  did.  Finnegan 
had  been  continuing  the  siege  since  the  warm 
weather  set  in.  He  was  a  good  spieler,  Kate 
gave  in  to  that.  But  she  had  n't  taken  him 
for  her  steady  yet,  though  the  alley  let  on 
it  thought  so.  Her  steady  is  away  at  sea. 
George  evidently  thought  the  time  ripe  for 
cutting  him  out.  His  spooning  ran  into  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning,  night  after  night. 

It  was  near  1  a.  m.  that  morning  when 
Thomas  Hart  came  down  to  the  yard,  stum- 
bled over  the  pair  in  the  doorway,  and  made 
remarks.  As  he  passed  out  of  sight,  George, 
the  swain,  said : 

"If  he  gives  any  more  lip  when  he  comes 

15 


226        SPOONING  IN  DYNAMITE  ALLEY 

back,  I  '11  swing  on  him."   And  just  then  Hart 
came  back. 

He  did  "  give  lip/'  and  George  "  swung  on 
him."  It  took  him  in  the  eye,  and  he  fell. 
Then  he  jumped  on  him  and  stove  in  his 
slats.     Kate  ran. 

After  all,  George  Finnegan  was  not  game. 
When  Hart's  wife  came  down  to  see  who 
groaned  in  the  yard,  and,  finding  her  hus- 
band, let  out  those  blood-curdling  yells  which 
made  Kate  Cassidy  hide  in  an  ice-wagon  half- 
way down  the  block,  he  deserted  Kate  and  ran. 

Mistress  Hart's  yells  brought  Policeman 
Devery.  He  did  n't  ask  whence  they  came, 
but  made  straight  for  the  alley.  Mistress 
Hart  was  there,  vowing  vengeance  upon 
"  Kate  Cassidy 's  feller,"  who  had  done  up  her 
man.  She  vowed  vengeance  in  such  a  loud 
voice  that  the  alley  trembled  with  joyful 
excitement,  while  Kate,  down  the  street,  crept 
farther  into  the  ice-wagon,  trembling  also, 
but  with  fear.  Kate  is  not  a  fighter.  She  is 
too  good-looking  for  that. 

The  policeman  found  her  there  and  escorted 
her  home,  past  the  Hart  door,  after  he  had 
sent  Mister  Hart  to  the  hospital,  where  the 
doctors  fixed  his  slats  (ribs,  that  is  to  say). 
Mistress  Hart,  outnumbered,  fell  back  and 


SPOOXIXG  IN  DYNAMITE  ALLEY        227 

organized  an  ambush,  vowing  that  she  would 
lay  Kate  out  yet.  Discovering  that  the  Floods, 
next  door,  had  connived  at  her  enemy's  de- 
scent by  way  of  their  fire-escape,  she  included 
them  in  the  siege  by  prompt  declaration  of 
war  upon  the  whole  floor. 

The  cause  of  it  all,  safe  in  the  bakery,  sus- 
pended the  greasing  of  pie-plates  long  enough 
to  give  her  version  of  the  row : 

"We  were  a-sittin'  there,  quiet  an'  peace- 
ful like,"  she  said,  "  when  Mister  Hart  came 
along  an'  made  remarks,  an'  George  he  give 
it  back  to  him  good.  '  Oh,'  says  he,  *  you  ain't 
a  thousand ;  yer  only  one,'  an'  he  went.  When 
he  came  back,  George  he  stood  up,  an'  Mister 
Hart  he  says  to  me :  '  Ye  're  not  an  up-stairs 
girl ;  you  can  be  called  down,'  an'  George  he 
up  an'  struck  him.  I  did  n't  wait  fer  no 
more.  I  just  run  out  of  the  alley.  Is  he 
hurted  bad  ? 

"  Who  is  George  ?  He  is  me  feller.  I  met 
him  at  the  Hounds'  ball  in  Germania  Hall, 
an'  he  treated  me  same  as  you  would  any  lady. 
We  danced  together  an'  had  a  couple  of 
drinks,  an'  he  took  me  home.  George  ain't 
me  steady,  you  know.  Me  regular  he  is  to 
sea.     See  ? 

"  I  did  n't  see  nothin'.     I  hid  in  the  wagon 


228        SPOONING  IN  DYNAmTE  ALLEY 

while  I  heard  him  callin'  names.  I  was  n't 
goin'  in  till  Mr.  Deevy  [Policeman  Deverj^] 
he  came  along.  I  told  him  I  was  scart,  and 
he  said :  '  Oh,  come  along.'  But  I  was  dead 
scart. 

^'Say,  you  won't  forget  to  come  to  our 
picnic,  the  '  Pie-Girls,'  will  you  ?  It  '11  be 
great." 


HEROES  "WHO  FIGHT  FIRE 

THIRTEEN  years  have  passed  since,  but 
it  is  all  to  me  as  if  it  had  happened  yes- 
terday—the clanging  of  the  fire-beUs,  the 
hoarse  shouts  of  the  firemen,  the  wild  rush 
and  terror  of  the  streets ;  then  the  great  hush 
that  fell  upon  the  crowd ;  the  sea  of  upturned 
faces,  with  the  fire-glow  upon  it;  and  up 
there,  against  the  background  of  black  smoke 
that  poured  from  roof  and  attic,  the  boy 
clinging  to  the  narrow  ledge,  so  far  up  that 
it  seemed  humanly  impossible  that  help  could 
ever  come. 

But  even  then  it  was  coming.  Up  from 
the  street,  while  the  crew  of  the  truck  com- 
pany were  laboring  with  the  heavy  extension- 
ladder  that  at  its  longest  stretch  was  many 
feet  too  short,  crept  four  men  upon  long, 
slender  poles  with  cross-bars,  iron-hooked  at 

229 


230  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE 

the  end.  Standing  in  one  window,  they 
reached  np  and  thrust  the  hook  through  the 
next  one  above,  then  mounted  a  story  higher. 
Again  the  crash  of  glass,  and  again  the  dizzy 
ascent.  Straight  up  the  wall  they  crept, 
looking  like  human  flies  on  the  ceihng,  and 
clinging  as  close,  never  resting,  reaching  one 
recess  only  to  set  out  for  the  next ;  nearer  and 
nearer  in  the  race  for  life,  until  but  a  single 
span  separated  the  foremost  from  the  boy. 
And  now  the  iron  hook  fell  at  his  feet,  and 
the  fireman  stood  upon  the  step  with  the  res- 
cued lad  in  his  arms,  just  as  the  pent-up 
flame  burst  lurid  from  the  attic  window, 
reaching  with  impotent  fury  for  its  prey. 
The  next  moment  they  were  safe  upon  the 
great  ladder  waiting  to  receive  them  below. 

Then  such  a  shout  went  up  !  Men  fell  on 
each  other's  necks,  and  cried  and  laughed  at 
once.  Strangers  slapped  one  another  on  the 
back,  with  glistening  faces,  shook  hands,  and 
behaved  generally  like  men  gone  suddenly 
mad.  Women  wept  in  the  street.  The  driver 
of  a  car  stalled  in  the  crowd,  who  had  stood 
through  it  all  speechless,  clutching  the  reins, 
whipped  his  horses  into  a  gaUop,  and  drove 
away  yelling  like  a  Comanche,  to  relieve  his 
feelings.     The  boy  and  his  rescuer  were  car- 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  231 

ried  across  the  street  without  any  one  know- 
ing how.  Policemen  forgot  theii'  dignity, 
and  shouted  with  the  rest.  Fire,  peril,  terror, 
and  loss  were  alike  forgotten  in  the  one  touch 
of  nature  that  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 

Fireman  John  Binns  was  made  captain  of 
his  crew,  and  the  Bennett  medal  was  pinned 
on  his  coat  on  the  next  parade-day.  The 
burning  of  the  St.  George  Flats  was  the  first 
opportunity  New  York  had  of  witnessing  a 
rescue  with  the  scaling-ladders  that  form  such 
an  essential  part  of  the  equipment  of  the  fire- 
fighters to-day.  Since  then  there  have  been 
many  such.  In  the  company  in  which  John 
Binns  was  a  private  of  the  second  grade,  two 
others  to-day  bear  the  medal  for  brave  deeds : 
the  foreman,  Daniel  J.  Meagher,  and  Private 
Martin  M.  Coleman,  whose  name  has  been 
seven  times  inscribed  on  the  roll  of  honor  for 
twice  that  number  of  rescues,  any  one  of 
which  stamped  him  as  a  man  among  men,  a 
real  hero.  And  Hook-and-Ladder  No.  3  is 
not  specially  distinguished  among  the  fire- 
crews  of  the  metropolis  for  daring  and  cour- 
age. New-Yorkers  are  justly  proud  of  their 
firemen.  Take  it  all  in  all,  there  is  not,  I 
think,  to  be  found  anywhere  a  body  of  men 
as  fearless,  as  brave,  and  as  efficient  as  the 


232  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE 

Fire  Brigade  of  New  York.  I  have  known  it 
well  for  twenty  years,  and  I  speak  from  a 
personal  acquaintance  with  very  many  of  its 
men,  and  from  a  professional  knowledge  of 
more  daring  feats,  more  hairbreadth  escapes, 
and  more  brilliant  work,  than  could  well  be 
recorded  between  the  covers  of  this  book. 

Indeed,  it  is  hard,  in  recording  any,  to 
make  a  choice,  and  to  avoid  giving  the  im- 
pression that  recklessness  is  a  chief  quality 
in  the  fireman's  make-up.  That  would  not  be 
true.  His  life  is  too  full  of  real  peril  for  him 
to  expose  it  recklessly— that  is  to  say,  need- 
lessly. From  the  time  when  he  leaves  his 
quarters  in  answer  to  an  alarm  until  he  re- 
turns, he  takes  a  risk  that  may  at  any  mo- 
ment set  him  face  to  face  with  death  in  its 
most  cruel  form.  He  needs  nothing  so  much 
as  a  clear  head;  and  nothing  is  prized  so 
highly,  nothing  puts  him  so  surely  in  the  line 
of  promotion;  for  as  he  advances  in  rank 
and  responsibility,  the  lives  of  others,  as  well 
as  his  own,  come  to  depend  on  his  judgment. 
The  act  of  conspicuous  daring  which  the 
world  applauds  is  oftenest  to  the  fireman  a 
matter  of  simple  duty  that  had  to  be  done  in 
that  way  because  there  was  no  other.  Nor  is 
it  always,  or  even  usually,  the  hardest  duty, 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  233 

as  lie  sees  it.  It  came  easy  to  him  because  lie 
is  an  athlete  trained  to  do  just  such  tilings, 
and  because  once  for  all  it  is  easier  to  risk 
one's  life  in  the  open,  in  the  sight  of  one's 
fellows,  than  to  face  death  alone,  caught  like 
a  rat  in  a  trap.  That  is  the  real  peril  which 
he  knows  too  well;  but  of  that  the  public 
hears  only  when  he  has  fought  his  last  fight, 
and  lost. 

How  literally  our  every-day  security— of 
which  we  think,  if  we  think  of  it  at  all,  as  a 
mere  matter  of  course— is  built  upon  the  su- 
preme sacrifice  of  these  devoted  men,  we  real- 
ize at  long  intervals,  when  a  disaster  occurs 
such  as  the  one  in  which  Chief  Bresnan  and 
Foreman  Rooney^  lost  their  lives  three  years 
ago.  They  were  crushed  to  death  under  the 
great  water-tank  in  a  Twenty-fourth  street 
factory  that  was  on  fire.  Its  supports  had 
been  burned  away.  An  examination  tlia,t 
was  then  made  of  the  water-tanks  in  the  city 
discovered  eight  thousand  that  were  either 

1  Rooney  wore  the  Bennett  medal  for  saving  the 
life  of  a  woman  at  the  disastrous  fire  in  the  old 
"World "  building,  on  January  31,  1882.  The  ladder 
upon  which  he  stood  was  too  short.  Riding  upon  the 
topmost  rung,  he  bade  the  woman  jump,  and  caught 
and  held  her  as  she  fell. 


234  HEROES   WHO   FIGHT   FIRE 

wholly  unsupported,  except  by  the  roof -beams, 
or  propped  on  timbers,  and  therefore  a  direct 
menace,  not  only  to  the  firemen  when  they 
were  called  there,  but  daily  to  those  living 
under  them.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  add  that 
the  department's  just  demand  for  a  law  that 
should  compel  landlords  either  to  build  tanks 
on  the  wall  or  on  iron  supports  has  not  been 
heeded  yet^  but  that  is,  unhappily,  an  old 
story. 

Seventeen  years  ago  the  collapse  of  a  Broad- 
way building  during  a  fire  convinced  the  com- 
munity that  stone  pillars  were  unsafe  as  sup- 
ports. The  fii-e  was  in  the  basement,  and  the 
firemen  had  turned  the  hose  on.  When  the 
water  struck  the  hot  granite  columns,  they 
cracked  and  fell,  and  the  building  fell  with 
them.  There  were  upon  the  roof  at  the  time 
a  dozen  men  of  the  crew  of  Truck  Company 
No.  1,  chopping  holes  for  smoke-vents.  The 
majority  clung  to  the  parapet,  and  hung 
there  till  rescued.  Two  went  down  into  the 
furnace  from  which  the  flames  shot  up  twenty 
feet  when  the  roof  broke.  One,  Fireman 
Thomas  J.  Dougherty,  was  a  wearer  of  the 
Bennett  medal,  too.  His  foreman  answers 
on  parade-day,  when  his  name  is  called,  that 
he  "  died  on  the  field  of  duty."     These,  at  all 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE  235 

events,  did  not  die  in  vain.  Stone  columns 
are  not  now  used  as  supports  for  buildings  in 
New  York. 

So  one  might  go  on  quoting  the  perils  of 
the  firemen  as  so  many  steps  forward  for  the 
better  protection  of  the  rest  of  us.  It  was 
the  burning  of  the  St.  George  Flats,  and  more 
recently  of  the  Manhattan  Bank,  in  which  a 
dozen  men  were  disabled,  that  stamped  the 
average  fire-proof  construction  as  faulty 
and  largely  delusive.  One  might  even  go 
fui'ther,  and  say  that  the  fireman's  risk  in- 
creases in  the  ratio  of  our  progress  or  con- 
venience. The  water-tanks  came  with  the 
very  high  buildings,  which  in  themselves  offer 
problems  to  the  fire-fighters  that  have  not 
yet  been  solved.  The  very  air-shafts  that 
were  hailed  as  the  first  advance  in  tene- 
ment-house building  added  enormously  to  the 
fireman's  work  and  risk,  as  well  as  to  the 
risk  of  every  one  dwelling  under  their  roofs, 
by  acting  as  so  many  huge  chimneys  that 
carried  the  fire  to  the  windows  opening  upon 
them  in  every  story.  More  than  half  of  all 
the  fires  in  New  York  occur  in  tenement- 
houses.  When  the  Tenement-House  Com- 
mission of  1894  sat  in  this  city,  considering 
means  of  making  them  safer  and  better,  it 


236  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE 

received  the  most  practical  help  and  advice 
from  the  firemen,  especially  from  Chief  Bres- 
nan,  whose  death  occurred  only  a  few  days 
after  he  had  testified  as  a  witness.  The  rec- 
ommendations upon  which  he  insisted  are 
now  part  of  the  general  tenement-house  law. 
Chief  Bresnan  died  leading  his  men  agamst 
the  enemy.  In  the  Fire  Department  the 
battalion  chief  leads;  he  does  not  direct 
operations  from  a  safe  position  in  the  rear. 
Perhaps  this  is  one  of  the  secrets  of  the  in- 
domitable spirit  of  his  men.  Whatever  hard- 
ships they  have  to  endure,  his  is  the  first  and 
the  biggest  share.  Next  in  line  comes  the 
captain,  or  foreman,  as  he  is  called.  Of  the 
six  who  were  caught  in  the  fatal  trap  of  the 
water-tank,  four  hewed  their  way  out  with 
axes  through  an  intervening  partition.  They 
were  of  the  ranks.  The  two  who  were  killed 
were  the  chief  and  Assistant  Foreman  John  L. 
Rooney,  who  was  that  day  in  charge  of  his 
company.  Foreman  Shaw  having  just  been 
promoted  to  Bresnan's  rank.  It  was  less  than 
a  year  after  that  Chief  Shaw  was  killed  in  a 
fire  in  Mercer  street.  I  think  I  could  reckon 
up  as  many  as  five  or  six  battalion  chiefs  who 
have  died  in  that  way,  leading  their  men. 
They  would  not  deserve  the  name  if  they  did 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  237 

not  follow  such  leaders,  no  matter  where  the 
road  led. 

In  the  chief's  quarters  of  the  Fourteenth 
Battalion  up  in  Wakefield  there  sits  to-day  a 
man,  still  young  in  years,  who  in  his  maimed 
body  but  unbroken  spii'it  bears  such  testimony 
to  the  quality  of  New  York's  fire-fighters  as 
the  brave  Bresnan  and  his  comrade  did  in 
their  death.  Thomas  J.  Ahearn  led  his  com- 
pany as  captain  to  a  fire  in  the  Consolidated 
Gas-Works  on  the  East  Side.  He  found  one 
of  the  buildings  ablaze.  Far  toward  the  rear, 
at  the  end  of  a  narrow  lane,  around  which 
the  fire  swirled  and  arched  itself,  white  and 
wicked,  lay  the  body  of  a  man— dead,  said  the 
panic-stricken  crowd.  His  sufferings  had 
been  brief.  A  worse  fate  threatened  all  un- 
less  the  fire  was  quickly  put  out.  There  were 
underground  reservoirs  of  naphtha— the 
ground  was  honeycombed  with  them— that 
might  explode  at  any  moment  with  the  fire 
raging  overhead.  The  peril  was  instant  and 
great.  Captain  Ahearn  looked  at  the  body, 
and  saw  it  stu*.  The  watch-chain  upon  the 
man's  vest  rose  and  fell  as  if  he  were  breath- 
ing. 

*'  He  is  not  dead,"  he  said.  ''  T  am  going  to 
get  that  man  out."     And  he  crept  down  the 


238  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE 

lane  of  fire,  unmindful  of  the  hidden  dangers, 
seeing  only  the  man  who  was  perishing.  The 
flames  scorched  him ;  they  blocked  his  way ; 
but  he  came  through  alive,  and  brought  out 
his  man,  so  badly  hurt,  however,  that  he  died 
in  the  hospital  that  day.  The  Board  of  Fire 
Commissioners  gave  Ahearn  the  medal  for 
bravery,  and  made  him  chief.  Within  a  year 
he  all  but  lost  his  life  in  a  gallant  attempt  to 
save  the  life  of  a  child  that  was  supposed  to 
be  penned  in  a  burning  Rivington-street  tene- 
ment. Chief  Ahearn's  quarters  were  near  by, 
and  he  was  first  on  the  ground.  A  desperate 
man  confronted  him  in  the  hallway.  ''My 
child !  my  child ! "  he  cried,  and  wi-ung  his 
hands.  ''Save  him!  He  is  in  there."  He 
pointed  to  the  back  room.  It  was  black  with 
smoke.  In  the  front  room  the  fire  was  rag- 
ing. Crawling  on  hands  and  feet,  the  chief 
made  his  way  into  the  room  the  man  had 
pointed  out.  He  groped  under  the  bed,  and 
in  it,  but  found  no  child  there.  Satisfied  that 
it  had  escaped,  he  started  to  return.  The 
smoke  had  grown  so  thick  that  breathing  was 
no  longer  possible,  even  at  the  floor.  The 
chief  drew  his  coat  over  his  head,  and  made  a 
dash  for  the  hall  door.  He  reached  it  only  to 
find  that  the  spring-lock  had  snapped  shut. 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE  239 

The  door-knob  burned  his  hand.  The  fire 
burst  through  from  the  front  room,  and  seared 
his  face.  With  a  last  effort,  he  kicked  the 
lower  panel  out  of  the  door,  and  put  his 
head  through.  And  then  he  knew  no  more. 
His  men  found  him  lying  so  when  they 
came  looking  for  h-im.  The  coat  was  burned 
off  his  back,  and  of  his  hat  only  the  wii'e  rim 
remained.  He  lay  ten  months  in  the  hospital, 
and  came  out  deaf  and  wrecked  physically. 
At  the  age  of  forty-five  the  board  retired  him 
to  the  quiet  of  the  country  district,  with  this 
formal  resolution,  that  did  the  board  more 
credit  than  it  could  do  him.  It  is  the  only 
one  of  its  kind  upon  the  department  books : 

Eesolved,  That  in  assigning  Battalion  Chief  Thomas 
J.  Ahearn  to  command  the  Fourteenth  Battalion,  in 
the  newly  annexed  district,  the  Board  deems  it  proper 
to  express  the  sense  of  obligation  felt  by  the  Board 
and  all  good  citizens  for  the  brilliant  and  meritorious 
services  of  Chief  Ahearn  in  the  discharge  of  duty  which 
will  always  serve  as  an  example  and  an  inspiration  to 
our  uniformed  force,  and  to  express  the  hope  that  his 
future  years  of  service  at  a  less  arduous  post  may  be 
as  comfortable  and  pleasant  as  his  former  years  have 
been  brilliant  and  honorable. 

Firemen  are  athletes  as  a  matter  of  course. 
They  have  to  be,  or  they  could  not  hold  their 
places  for  a  week,  even  if  they  could  get  into 


240  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE 

them  at  all.  The  mere  handling  of  the  scal- 
ing-ladders, which,  light  though  they  seem, 
weigh  from  sixteen  to  forty  pounds,  requires 
unusual  strength.  No  particular  skill  is 
needed.  A  man  need  only  have  steady  nerve, 
and  the  strength  to  raise  the  long  pole  by 
its  narrow  end,  and  jam  the  iron  hook 
through  a  window  which  he  cannot  see  but 
knows  is  there.  Once  through,  the  teeth  in 
the  hook  and  the  man's  weight  upon  the  lad- 
der hold  it  safe,  and  there  is  no  real  danger 
unless  he  loses  his  head.  Against  that  pos- 
sibility the  severe  drill  in  the  school  of  in- 
struction is  the  barrier.  Any  one  to  whom 
climbing  at  dizzy  heights,  or  doing  the  hun- 
dred and  one  things  of  peril  to  ordinary  men 
which  firemen  are  constantly  called  upon  to 
do,  causes  the  least  discomfort,  is  rejected  as 
unfit.  About  five  per  cent,  of  all  appointees 
are  eliminated  by  the  ladder  test,  and  never 
get  beyond  their  probation  service.  A  cer- 
tain smaller  percentage  takes  itself  out  through 
loss  of  "nerve"  generally.  The  first  experi- 
ence of  a  room  full  of  smothering  smoke,  with 
the  fire  roaring  overhead,  is  generally  sufficient 
to  convince  the  timid  that  the  service  is  not  for 
him.  No  cowards  are  dismissed  from  the  de- 
partment, for  the  reason  that  none  get  into  it. 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  241 

The  notion  that  there  is  a  life-saving  corps 
apart  from  the  general  body  of  firemen  rests 
upon  a  mistake.     They  are  one.     Every  fire- 
man nowadays  must  pass  muster  at  life-saving 
drill,  must  climb  to  the  top  of  any  building 
on  his  scaling-ladder,  slide  down  with  a  res- 
cued comrade,  or  jump  without  hesitation  from 
the  third  story  into  the  life-net  spread  below. 
By  such  training  the  men  are  fitted  for  their 
work,  and  the  occasion  comes  soon  that  puts 
them   to   the   test.     It   came   to   Daniel  J. 
Meagher,  of  whom  I  spoke  as  foreman  of 
Hook-and-Ladder  Company  No.  3,  when,  in 
the  midnight  hour,  a  woman  hung  from  the 
fifth-story  window  of  a  buiming  building,  and 
the  longest  ladder  at  hand  fell  short  ten  or  a 
dozen  feet  of  reaching  her.     The  boldest  man 
in  the  crew  had  vainly  attempted  to  get  to 
her,  and  in  the  effort  had  sprained  his  foot. 
There  were  no  scaling-ladders  then.    Meagher 
ordered  the  rest  to  plant  the  ladder  on  the 
stoop  and  hold  it  out  from  the  building  so 
that  he  might  reach  the  very  topmost  step. 
Balanced   thus   where  the  slightest  tremor 
might  have  caused  ladder  and  all  to  crash  to 
the  ground,  he  bade  the  woman  drop,  and  re- 
ceiving her  in  his  arms,  carried  her  down 
safe. 

16 


242  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE 

No  one  but  an  athlete  with  muscles  and 
nerves  of  steel  could  have  performed  such  a 
feat,  or  that  which  made  Dennis  Ryer,  of  the 
crew  of  Engine  No.  36,  famous  three  years 
ago.  That  was  on  Seventh  Avenue  at  One 
Hundred  and  Thirty-fourth  street.  A  flat 
was  on  fire,  and  the  tenants  had  fled  5  but  one, 
a  woman,  bethought  herself  of  her  parrot, 
and  went  back  for  it,  to  find  escape  by  the 
stairs  cut  off  when  she  again  attempted  to 
reach  the  street.  With  the  parrot-cage,  she 
appeared  at  the  top-floor  window,  framed  in 
smoke,  calling  for  help.  Again  there  was  no 
ladder  to  reach.  There  were  neighbors  on 
the  roof  with  a  rope,  but  the  woman  was  too 
frightened  to  use  it  herself.  Dennis  Ryer 
made  it  fast  about  his  own  waist,  and  bade 
the  others  let  him  down,  and  hold  on  for  life. 
He  drew  the  woman  out,  but  she  was  heavj', 
and  it  was  all  they  could  do  above  to  hold 
them.  To  pull  them  over  the  cornice  was 
out  of  the  question.  Upon  the  highest  step 
of  the  ladder,  many  feet  below,  stood  Ryer's 
father,  himself  a  fireman  of  another  com- 
pany, and  saw  his  boy's  peril. 

''  Hold  fast,  Dennis  !  "  he  shouted.  "  If  you 
fall  I  will  catch  you."  Had  they  let  go,  all 
three  would  have  been  killed.     The  young 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE  243 

fireman  saw  the  danger,  and  the  one  door  of 
escape,  with  a  glance.  The  window  before 
which  he  swung,  half  smothered  by  the  smoke 
that  belched  from  it,  was  the  last  in  the  house. 
Just  beyond,  in  the  window  of  the  adjoining 
house,  was  safety,  if  he  could  but  reach  it. 
Putting  out  a  foot,  he  kicked  the  wall,  and 
made  himself  swing  toward  it,  once,  twice, 
bending  his  body  to  add  to  the  motion.  The 
third  time  he  all  but  passed  it,  and  took  a 
mighty  grip  on  the  affrighted  woman,  shouting 
into  her  ear  to  loose  her  own  hold  at  the  same 
time.  As  they  passed  the  window  on  the 
fourth  trip,  he  thrust  her  through  sash  and 
all  with  a  supreme  effort,  and  himself  followed 
on  the  next  rebound,  while  the  street,  that 
was  black  with  a  surging  multitude,  rang 
with  a  mighty  cheer.  Old  Washington  Ryer, 
on  his  ladder,  threw  his  cap  in  the  air,  and 
cheered  louder  than  aU  the  rest.  But  the 
parrot  was  dead— frightened  to  death,  very 
likely,  or  smothered. 

I  once  asked  Fireman  Martin  M.  Coleman, 
after  one  of  those  exhibitions  of  coolness  and 
courage  that  thrust  him  constantly  upon 
the  notice  of  the  newspaper  man,  what  he 
thought  of  when  he  stood  upon  the  ladder, 
with  this  thing  before  him  to  do  that  might 


244  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE 

mean  life  or  death  the  next  moment.  He 
looked  at  me  in  some  perplexity. 

"  Think  ? "  he  said  slowly.  "  Why,  I  don't 
think.  There  ain't  any  time  to.  If  I  'd 
stopped  to  think,  them  five  people  would  'a' 
been  burnt.  No ;  I  don't  think  of  danger.  If 
it  is  anything,  it  is  that— up  there— I  am  boss. 
The  rest  are  not  in  it.  Only  I  wish,"  he  added, 
rubbing  his  arm  ruefully  at  the  recollection, 
'^  that  she  had  n't  fainted.  It  's  hard  when 
they  faint.  They  're  just  so  much  dead- 
weight. We  get  no  help  at  all  from  them 
heavy  women." 

And  that  was  all  I  could  get  out  of  him.  I 
never  had  much  better  luck  with  Chief  Ben- 
jamin A.  Gicquel,  who  is  the  oldest  wearer  of 
the  Bennett  medal,  just  as  Coleman  is  the 
youngest,  or  the  one  who  received  it  last.  He 
was  willing  enough  to  talk  about  the  science 
of  putting  out  fires;  of  Department  Chief 
Bonner,  the  ^'man  of  few  words,"  who,  he 
thinks,  has  mastered  the  art  beyond  any  man 
living ;  of  the  back-draft,  and  almost  anything 
else  pertaining  to  the  business :  but  when  I 
insisted  upon  his  telling  me  the  story  of  the 
rescue  of  the  Schaefer  family  of  five  from  a 
burning  tenement  down  in  Cherry  street,  in 
which  he  earned  his  rank  and  reward,  he 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  245 

laughed  a  good-liumored  little  laugh,  and  said 
that  it  was  "the  old  man"— meaning  Schae- 
fer— who  should  have  had  the  medal.  "It 
was  a  grand  thing  in  him  to  let  the  little  ones 
come  out  first.''  I  have  sometimes  wished 
that  firemen  were  not  so  modest.  It  would 
be  much  easier,  if  not  so  satisfactory,  to  re- 
cord their  gallant  deeds.  But  I  am  not  sure 
that  it  is,  after  all,  modesty  so  much  as  a 
wholly  different  point  of  view.  It  is  business 
with  them,  the  work  of  their  lives.  The  one 
feeling  that  is  allowed  to  rise  beyond  this  is 
the  feeling  of  exultation  in  the  face  of  peril 
conquered  by  coui'age,  which  Coleman  ex- 
pressed. On  the  ladder  he  was  boss  !  It  was 
the  fancy  of  a  masterful  man,  and  none  but 
a  masterful  man  would  have  got  upon  the 
ladder  at  all. 

Doubtless  there  is  something  in  the  spec- 
tacular side  of  it  that  attracts.  It  would  be 
strange  if  there  were  not.  There  is  every- 
thing in  a  fireman's  existence  to  encourage  it. 
Day  and  night  he  leads  a  kind  of  hair-trigger 
life,  that  feeds  naturally  upon  excitement, 
even  if  only  as  a  relief  from  the  irksome 
idling  in  quarters.  Try  as  they  may  to  give 
him  enough  to  do  there,  the  time  hangs 
heavily  upon  his  hands,  keyed  up  as  he  is,  and 


246  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE 

need  be,  to  adventurous  deeds  at  shortest 
notice.  He  falls  to  grumbling  and  quarrel- 
ing, and  tbe  necessity  becomes  imperative  of 
holding  him  to  the  strictest  discipline,  under 
which  he  chafes  impatiently.  '^  They  nag  like 
a  lot  of  old  women,"  said  Department  Chief 
Bonner  to  me  once  5  "  and  the  best  at  a  fire 
are  often  the  worst  in  the  house."  In  the 
midst  of  it  all  the  gong  strikes  a  familiar 
signal.  The  horses'  hoofs  thunder  on  the 
planks  5  with  a  leap  the  men  go  down  the 
shining  pole  to  the  main  floor,  all  else  forgot- 
ten ;  and  with  crash  and  clatter  and  bang  the 
heavy  engine  swings  into  the  street,  and  races 
away  on  a  wild  gallop,  leaving  a  trail  of  fire 
behind. 

Presently  the  crowd  sees  rubber-coated, 
helmeted  men  with  pipe  and  hose  go  through 
a  window  from  which  such  dense  smoke 
pours  forth  that  it  seems  incredible  that  a 
human  being  could  breathe  it  for  a  second 
and  live.  The  hose  is  dragged  squirming 
over  the  sill,  where  shortly  a  red-eyed  face 
with  disheveled  hair  appears,  to  shout  some- 
thing hoarsely  to  those  below,  which  they 
understand.  Then,  unless  some  emergency 
arise,  the  spectacular  part  is  over.  Could  the 
citizen  whose  heart  beat  as  he  watched  them 


HEROES   WHO  FIGHT  FIRE  247 

enter  see  them  now,  he  would  see  grimy 
shapes,  very  unlike  the  fine-looking  men  who 
but  just  now  had  roused  his  admiration, 
crawling  on  hands  and  knees,  with  their  noses 
close  to  the  floor  if  the  smoke  be  very  dense, 
ever  pointing  the  ^'pipe"  in  the  direction 
where  the  enemy  is  expected  to  appear.  The 
fire  is  the  enemy ;  but  he  can  fight  that,  once 
he  reaches  it,  with  something  of  a  chance. 
The  smoke  kills  without  giving  him  a  show 
to  fight  back.  Long  practice  toughens  him 
against  it,  until  he  learns  the  trick  of  ^'  eating 
the  smoke."  He  can  breathe  where  a  candle 
goes  out  for  want  of  oxygen.  By  holding  his 
mouth  close  to  the  nozzle,  he  gets  what  little 
air  the  stream  of  water  brings  with  it  and  sets 
free  j  and  within  a  few  inches  of  the  floor  there 
is  nearly  always  a  current  of  air.  In  the  last 
emergency,  there  is  the  hose  that  he  can  fol- 
low out.  The  smoke  always  is  his  worst 
enemy.  It  lays  ambushes  for  him  which  he 
can  suspect,  but  not  ward  off.  He  tries  to,  by 
opening  vents  in  the  roof  as  soon  as  the  pipe- 
men  are  in  place  and  ready ;  but  in  spite  of 
all  precautions,  he  is  often  surprised  by  the 
dreaded  back-draft. 

I  remember  standing  in  front  of  a  burning 
Broadway  store,  one  night,  when  the  back- 


248  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE 

draft  blew  out  the  whole  front  without  warn- 
ing. It  is  simply  an  explosion  of  gases  gen- 
erated by  the  heat,  which  must  have  vent,  and 
go  upon  the  line  of  least  resistance,  up,  or 
down,  or  in  a  circle— it  does  not  much  mat- 
ter, so  that  they  go.  It  swept  shutters,  win- 
dows, and  all,  across  Broadway,  in  this 
instance,  like  so  much  chaff,  littering  the 
street  with  heavy  rolls  of  cloth.  The  crash 
was  like  a  fearful  clap  of  thunder.  Men  were 
knocked  down  on  the  opposite  sidewalk,  and 
two  teams  of  engine  horses,  used  to  almost 
any  kind  of  happening  at  a  fire,  ran  away  in 
a  wild  panic.  It  was  a  blast  of  that  kind  that 
threw  down  and  severely  injured  Battalion 
Chief  M'Gill,  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  ex- 
perienced of  firemen,  at  a  fire  on  Broadway 
in  March,  1890 ;  and  it  has  cost  more  brave 
men's  lives  than  the  fiercest  fi^re  that  ever 
raged.  The  ''puff,"  as  the  firemen  call  it, 
comes  suddenly,  and  from  the  corner  where 
it  is  least  expected.  It  is  dread  of  that,  and 
of  getting  overcome  by  the  smoke  generally, 
which  makes  firemen  go  alwa^^s  in  couples  or 
more  together.  They  never  lose  sight  of  one 
another  for  an  instant,  if  they  can  help  it.  If 
they  do,  they  go  at  once  in  search  of  the  lost. 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE  249 

The  delay  of  a  moment  may  prove  fatal  to 
him. 

Lieutenant  Samuel  Banta  of  the  Franklin- 
street  company,  discovering  the  pipe  that  had 
just  been  held  by  Fireman  Quinn  at  a  Park- 
Place  fire  thrashing  aimlessly  about,  looked 
about  him,  and  saw  Quinn  floating  on  his 
face  in  the  cellar,  which  was  running  full  of 
water.  He  had  been  overcome,  had  tumbled 
in,  and  was  then  drowning,  with  the  fire  rag- 
ing above  and  alongside.  Banta  jumped  in 
after  him,  and  endeavored  to  get  his  head 
above  water.  While  thus  occupied,  he  glanced 
up,  and  saw  the  preliminary  puff  of  the  back- 
draft  bearing  down  upon  him.  The  lieuten- 
ant dived  at  once,  and  tried  to  pull  his  un- 
happy pipe-man  with  him ;  but  he  struggled 
and  worked  himself  loose.  From  under  the 
water  Banta  held  up  a  hand,  and  it  was 
burnt.  He  held  up  the  other,  and  knew  that 
the  puff  had  passed  when  it  came  back  un- 
singed.  Then  he  brought  Quinn  out  with 
him ;  but  it  was  too  late.  Caught  between 
flood  and  fire,  he  had  no  chance.  When  I 
asked  the  lieutenant  about  it,  he  replied  sim- 
ply: "The  man  in  charge  of  the  hose  fell 
into  the  cellar.    I  got  him  out ;  that  was  all." 


250  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE 

''  But  how  ? "  I  persisted.  '^  Why,  I  went  down 
through  the  cellar,"  said  the  lieutenant,  smil- 
ing, as  if  it  was  the  most  ordinary  thing  in 
the  world. 

It  was  this  same  Banta  who,  when  Fireman 
David  H.  Soden  had  been  buried  under  the 
falling  walls  of  a  Pell-street  house,  crept 
through  a  gap  in  the  basement  wall,  in  among 
the  fallen  timbers,  and,  in  imminent  peril  of 
his  own  life,  worked  there  with  a  hand-saw 
two  long  hours  to  free  his  comrade,  while  the 
firemen  held  the  severed  timbers  up  with 
ropes  to  give  him  a  chance.  Repeatedly, 
while  he  was  at  work,  his  clothes  caught  fire, 
and  it  was  necessary  to  keep  playing  the  hose 
upon  him.  But  he  brought  out  his  man  safe 
and  sound,  and,  for  the  twentieth  time  per- 
haps, had  his  name  recorded  on  the  roll  of 
merit.  His  comrades  tell  how,  at  one  of  the 
twenty,  the  fall  of  a  building  in  Hall  Place 
had  left  a  workman  lying  on  a  shaky  piece  of 
wall,  helpless,  with  a  broken  leg.  It  could 
not  bear  the  weight  of  a  ladder,  and  it  seemed 
certain  death  to  attempt  to  reach  him,  when 
Banta,  running  up  a  slanting  beam  that  still 
hung  to  its  fastening  with  one  end,  leaped 
from  perch  to  perch  upon  the  wall,  where 
hardly   a   goat   could  have  found  footing, 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  251 

reached  his  man,  and  brought  him  down  slung 
over  his  shoulder,  and  swearing  at  him  Kke  a 
trooper  lest  the  peril  of  the  descent  cause  him 
to  lose  his  nerve  and  with  it  the  lives  of  both. 
Firemen  di*ead  cellar  fires  more  than  any 
other  kind,  and  with  reason.  It  is  difficult  to 
make  a  vent  for  the  smoke,  and  the  danger  of 
drowning  is  added  to  that  of  being  smothered 
when  they  get  fairly  to  work.  If  a  man  is 
lost  to  sight  or  touch  of  his  feUows  there  for 
ever  so  brief  a  while,  there  are  five  chances 
to  one  that  he  will  not  again  be  seen  alive. 
Then  there  ensues  such  a  fight  as  the  city 
witnessed  only  last  May  at  the  burning  of  a 
Chambers- street  paper-warehouse.  It  was 
fought  out  deep  underground,  with  fire  and 
flood,  freezing  cold  and  poisonous  gases, 
leagued  against  Chief  Bonner's  forces.  Next 
door  was  a  cold-storage  house,  whence  the 
cold.  Something  that  was  burning— I  do  not 
know  that  it  was  ever  found  out  just  what — 
gave  forth  the  smothering  fumes  before  which 
the  firemen  went  down  in  squads.  File  after 
file  staggered  out  into  the  street,  blackened 
and  gasping,  to  drop  there.  The  near  engine- 
house  was  made  into  a  hospital,  where  the 
senseless  men  were  laid  on  straw  hastily 
spread.     Ambulance  surgeons  worked  over 


252  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE 

them.  As  fast  as  they  were  brought  to,  they 
went  back  to  bear  a  hand  in  the  work  of  res- 
cue. In  delirium  they  fought  to  return. 
Down  in  the  depths  one  of  their  number  was 
lying  helpless. 

There  is  nothing  finer  in  the  records  of 
glorious  war  than  the  story  of  the  struggle 
these  brave  fellows  kept  up  for  hours  against 
tremendous  odds  for  the  rescue  of  their  com- 
rade. Time  after  time  they  went  down  into 
the  pit  of  deadly  smoke,  only  to  fail.  Lieu- 
tenant Banta  tried  twice  and  failed.  Fireman 
King  was  pulled  up  senseless,  and  having 
been  brought  round,  went  down  once  more. 
Fireman  Sheridan  returned  empty-handed, 
more  dead  than  alive.  John  O'Connell,  of 
Truck  No.  1,  at  length  succeeded  in  reaching 
his  comrade  and  tying  a  rope  about  him, 
while  from  above  they  drenched  both  with 
water  to  keep  them  from  roasting.  They  drew 
up  a  dying  man ;  but  John  G.  Reinhardt  dead 
is  more  potent  than  a  whole  crew  of  firemen 
alive.  The  story  of  the  fight  for  his  life  wiU 
long  be  told  in  the  engine-houses  of  New 
York,  and  will  nerve  the  Kings  and  the  Sheri- 
dans  and  the  O'Connells  of  another  day  to 
like  deeds. 

How  firemen   manage   to   hear   in   their 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  253 

sleep  the  right  signal,  while  they  sleep  right 
through  any  number  that  concerns  the  next 
company,  not  them,  is  one  of  the  mysteries 
that  will  probably  always  remain  unsolved. 
''I  don't  know,"  said  Department  Chief 
Bonner,  when  I  asked  him  once.  ^'  I  guess  it 
is  the  same  way  with  everybody.  You  hear 
what  you  have  to  hear.  There  is  a  gong 
right  over  my  bed  at  home,  and  I  hear  every 
stroke  of  it,  but  I  don't  hear  the  baby.  My 
wife  hears  the  baby  if  it  as  much  as  stirs  in 
its  crib,  but  not  the  gong."  Very  likely  he  is 
right.  The  fact  that  the  fireman  can  hear 
and  count  correctly  the  strokes  of  the  gong  in 
his  sleep  has  meant  life  to  many  hundreds, 
and  no  end  of  property  saved ;  for  it  is  in  the 
early  moments  of  a  fire  that  it  can  be  dealt 
with  summarily.  I  recall  one  instance  in 
which  the  failure  to  interpret  a  signal  prop- 
erly, or  the  accident  of  taking  a  wrong  road 
to  the  fire,  cost  a  life,  and,  singularly  enough, 
that  of  the  wife  of  one  of  the  firemen  who 
answered  the  alarm.  It  was  all  so  pitiful,  so 
tragic,  that  it  has  left  an  indelible  impression 
on  my  mind.  It  was  the  fire  at  which  Patrick 
F.  Lucas  earned  the  medal  for  that  year  by 
snatching  five  persons  out  of  the  very  jaws 
of  death  in  a  Dominick-street  tenement.    The 


254  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE 

alarm-signal  rang  in  the  hook-and-ladder  com- 
pany's quarters  in  North  Moore  street,  but  was 
either  misunderstood  or  they  made  a  wrong 
start.  Instead  of  turning  east  to  West  Broad- 
way, the  truck  turned  west,and  went  galloping 
toward  Greenwich  street.  It  was  only  a  few 
seconds,  the  time  that  was  lost,  but  it  was 
enough.  Fireman  Murphy's  heart  went  up  in 
his  throat  when,  from  his  seat  on  the  truck  as 
it  flew  toward  the  fire,  he  saw  that  it  was  his 
own  home  that  was  burning.  Up  on  the  fifth 
floor  he  found  his  wife  penned  in.  She  died 
in  his  arms  as  he  carried  her  to  the  fire-escape. 
The  fire,  for  once,  had  won  in  the  race  for  a 
life. 

While  I  am  writing  this,  the  morning  paper 
that  is  left  at  my  door  tells  the  story  of  a  fire- 
man who,  laid  up  with  a  broken  ankle  in  an 
up-town  hospital,  jumped  out  of  bed,  forget- 
ting his  injury,  when  the  alarm-gong  rang 
his  signal,  and  tried  to  go  to  the  fire.  The 
fire-alarms  are  rung  in  the  hospitals  for  the 
information  of  the  ambulance  corps.  The 
crippled  fireman  heard  the  signal  at  the  dead 
of  night,  and,  only  half  awake,  jumped  out  of 
bed,  groped  about  for  the  sliding-pole,  and, 
getting  hold  of  the  bedpost,  tried  to  slide 
down  that.     The  plaster  cast  about  his  ankle 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  255 

was  broken,  the  old  injury  reopened,  and  lie 
was  seriously  hurt. 

New  York  firemen  have  a  proud  saying 
that  they  ''fight  fii-e  from  the  inside."  It 
means  unhesitating  courage,  prompt  sacrifice, 
and  victory  gained,  all  in  one.  The  saving 
of  life  that  gets  into  the  newspapers  and  wins 
applause  is  done,  of  necessity,  largely  from 
the  outside,  but  is  none  the  less  perilous  for 
that.  Sometimes,  though  rarely,  it  has  in  its 
intense  gravity  almost  a  comic  tinge,  as  at 
one  of  the  infrequent  fires  in  the  Mulberry 
Bend  some  years  ago.  The  Italians  believe, 
with  reason,  that  there  is  bad  luck  in  fire, 
therefore  do  not  insure,  and  have  few  fires. 
Of  this  one  the  Romolo  family  shrine  was  the 
cause.  The  lamp  upon  it  exploded,  and  the 
tenement  was  ablaze  when  the  firemen  came. 
The  policeman  on  the  beat  had  tried  to  save 
Mrs.  Romolo ;  but  she  clung  to  the  bedpost, 
and  refused  to  go  without  the  rest  of  the 
family.  So  he  seized  the  baby,  and  rolled 
down  the  burning  stairs  with  it,  his  beard  and 
coat  afire.  The  only  way  out  was  shut  off 
when  the  engines  arrived.  The  Romolos 
shrieked  at  the  top-floor  window,  threatening 
to  throw  themselves  out.  There  was  not  a 
moment  to  be  lost.     Lying  flat  on  the  roof, 


256  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE 

with  their  heads  over  the  cornice,  the  firemen 
fished  the  two  children  out  of  the  window  with 
their  hooks.  The  ladders  were  run  up  in  time 
for  the  father  and  mother. 

The  readiness  of  resource  no  less  than  the 
intrepid  courage  and  athletic  skill  of  the  res- 
cuers evoke  enthusiastic  admiration.  Two 
instances  stand  out  in  my  recollection  among 
many.  Of  one  Fireman  Howe,  who  had  on 
more  than  one  occasion  signally  distinguished 
himself,  was  the  hero.  It  happened  on  the 
morning  of  January  2, 1896,  when  the  Geneva 
Club  on  Lexington  Avenue  was  burned  out. 
Fireman  Howe  drove  Hook-and-Ladder  No.  7 
to  the  fire  that  morning,  to  find  two  board- 
ers at  the  third-story  window,  hemmed  in  by 
flames  which  already  showed  behind  them. 
Followed  by  Fireman  Pearl,  he  ran  up  in  the 
adjoining  building,  and  presently  appeared  at 
a  window  on  the  third  floor,  separated  from 
the  one  occupied  by  the  two  men  by  a  blank 
wall-space  of  perhaps  four  or  five  feet.  It 
offered  no  other  footing  than  a  rusty  hook, 
but  it  was  enough.  Astride  of  the  window- 
sill,  with  one  foot  upon  the  hook,  the  other 
anchored  inside  by  his  comrade,  his  body 
stretched  at  full  length  along  the  wall,  Howe 
was  able  to  reach  the  two,  and  to  swing  them, 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE  257 

one  after  tlie  other,  through  his  own  window 
to  safety.  As  the  second  went  tlirough,  the 
crew  in  the  street  below  set  up  a  cheer  that 
raised  the  sleeping  echoes  of  the  street. 
Howe  looked  down,  nodded,  and  took  a  firmer 
grip ;  and  that  instant  came  his  gi*eat  peril. 

A  third  face  had  appeared  at  the  window 
just  as  the  fire  swept  through.  Howe  shut 
his  eyes  to  shield  them,  and  braced  himself  on 
the  hook  for  a  last  effort.  It  broke ;  and  the 
man,  frightened  out  of  his  wits,  threw  him- 
self headlong  from  the  window  upon  Howe's 
neck. 

The  fii'eman's  form  bent  and  swayed.  His 
comrade  within  felt  the  strain,  and  dug  his 
heels  into  the  boards.  He  was  almost  dragged 
out  of  the  window,  but  held  on  with  a  su- 
preme effort.  Just  as  he  thought  the  end  had 
come,  he  felt  the  strain  ease  up.  The  ladder 
had  reached  Howe  in  the  very  nick  of  time, 
and  given  him  support.  But  in  his  desperate 
effort  to  save  himself  and  the  other,  he 
slammed  his  burden  back  over  his  shoulder 
with  such  force  that  he  went  crashing  through, 
carrying  sash  and  all,  and  fell,  cut  and  bruised, 
but  safe,  upon  Fireman  Pearl,  who  groveled 
upon  the  floor,  prostrate  and  panting. 

The  other  case  New  York  remembers  yet 

17 


258  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE 

with  a  shudder.  It  was  known  long  in  the 
department  for  the  bravest  act  ever  done  by 
a  fireman— an  act  that  earned  for  Foreman 
William  Quirk  the  medal  for  1888.  He  was 
next  in  command  of  Engine  No.  22  when,  on 
a  March  morning,  the  Elberon  Flats  in  East 
Eighty-fifth  street  were  burned.  The  West- 
lake  family,  mother,  daughter,  and  two  sons, 
were  in  the  fifth  story,  helpless  and  hopeless. 
Quirk  ran  up  on  the  scaling-ladder  to  the 
fourth  floor,  hung  it  on  the  sill  above,  and 
got  the  boys  and  their  sister  down.  But  the 
flames  burst  from  the  floor  below,  cutting  off 
their  retreat.  Quirk's  captain  had  seen  the 
danger,  and  shouted  to  him  to  turn  back 
while  it  was  yet  time.  But  Quirk  had  no 
intention  of  turning  back.  He  measured  the 
distance  and  the  risk  with  a  look,  saw  the 
crowd  tugging  frantically  at  the  life-net  under 
the  window,  and  bade  them  jump,  one  by  one. 
They  jumped,  and  were  saved.  Last  of  all, 
he  jumped  himself,  after  a  vain  effort  to  save 
the  mother.  She  was  already  dead.  He 
caught  her  gown,  but  the  body  slipped  from 
his  grasp  and  fell  crashing  to  the  street  fifty 
feet  below.  He  himself  was  hurt  in  his  jump. 
The  volunteers  who  held  the  net  looked  up, 
and  were  frightened ;  they  let  go  their  grip, 


HEROES  WHO   FIGHT   FIRE  259 

and  the  plucky  fireman  broke  a  leg  and  hurt 
his  back  in  the  fall. 

''  Like  a  cry  of  fire  in  the  night"  appeals  to 
the  dullest  imagination  with  a  sense  of  sud- 
den fear.  There  have  been  nights  in  this  city 
when  the  cry  swelled  into  such  a  clamor  of 
teiTor  and  despair  as  to  make  the  stoutest 
heart  quake— when  it  seemed  to  those  who 
had  to  do  with  putting  out  fires  as  if  the  end 
of  all  things  was  at  hand.  Such  a  night  was 
that  of  the  burning  of  "  Cohnfeld's  Folly,"  in 
Bleecker  street,  March  17, 1891.  The  burning 
of  the  big  store  involved  the  destruction, 
wholly  or  in  part,  of  ten  surrounding  build- 
ings, and  called  out  nearly  one  third  of  the 
city's  Fire  Department.  While  the  fii*e  raged 
as  yet  unchecked,— while  walls  were  falling 
with  shock  and  crash  of  thunder,  the  streets 
full  of  galloping  engines  and  ambulances 
carrying  injured  firemen,  with  clangor  of 
urgent  gongs ;  while  insurance  patrolmen 
were  being  smothered  in  buildings  a  block 
away  by  the  smoke  that  hung  like  a  pall  over 
the  city,— another  disastrous  fire  broke  out  in 
the  dry-goods  district,  and  three  alarm-calls 
came  from  West  Seventeenth  street.  Nine 
other  fires  were  signaled,  and  before  morning 
all  the  crews  that  were  left  were  summoned 


260  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE 

to  Allen  street,  where  four  persons  were 
burned  to  death  in  a  tenement.  Those  are 
the  wild  nights  that  try  firemen's  souls,  and 
never  yet  found  them  wanting.  During  the 
great  blizzard,  when  the  streets  were  impas- 
sable and  the  system  crippled,  the  fires  in  the 
city  averaged  nine  a  day,— forty-five  for  the 
five  days  from  March  12  to  16,— and  not  one 
of  them  got  beyond  control.  The  fire  com- 
missioners put  on  record  their  pride  in  the 
achievement,  as  well  they  might.  It  was 
something  to  be  proud  of,  indeed. 

Such  a  night  promised  to  be  the  one  when 
the  Manhattan  Bank  and  the  State  Bank 
across  the  street  on  the  other  Broadway 
corner,  with  three  or  four  other  buildings, 
were  burned,  and  when  the  ominous  "two 
nines"  were  rung,  calling  nine  tenths  of  the 
whole  force  below  Central  Park  to  the  threat- 
ened quarter.  But,  happily,  the  promise  was 
not  fully  kept.  The  supposed  fire-proof  bank 
was  crumbling  in  the  withering  blast  like 
so  much  paper ;  the  cry  went  up  that  whole 
companies  of  firemen  were  perishing  within 
it;  and  the  alarm  had  reached  Police  Head- 
quarters in  the  next  block,  where  they  were 
counting  the  election  returns.  Thirteen  fire- 
men, including  the  deputy  department  chief. 


HEROES   WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  261 

a  battalion  chief,  and  two  captains,  limped  or 
were  carried  from  the  burning  bank,  more  or 
less  injured.  The  stone  steps  of  the  fire-proof 
stairs  had  fallen  with  them  or  upon  them. 
Their  imperiled  comrades,  whose  escape  was 
cut  off,  slid  down  hose  and  scaling-ladders. 
The  last,  the  crew  of  Engine  Company  No.  3, 
had  reached  the  street,  and  all  were  thought 
to  be  out,  when  the  assistant  foreman,  Daniel 
Fitzmaurice,  appeared  at  a  fifth-story  window. 
The  fire  beating  against  it  drove  him  away, 
but  he  found  footing  at  another,  next  adjoin- 
ing the  building  on  the  north.  To  reach  him 
from  below,  with  the  whole  building  ablaze, 
was  impossible.  Other  escape  there  was  none, 
save  a  cornice  ledge  extending  half-w^ay  to 
his  window :  but  it  was  too  narrow  to  afford 
foothold. 

Then  an  extraordinary  scene  was  enacted 
in  the  sight  of  thousands.  In  the  other  build- 
ing were  a  number  of  fire-insurance  patrol- 
men, covering  goods  to  protect  them  against 
water  damage.  One  of  these— Patrolman 
John  Rush— stepped  out  on  the  ledge,  and 
edged  his  way  toward  a  spur  of  stone  that 
projected  from  the  bank  building.  Behind 
followed  Patrolman  Barnett,  steadying  him 
and  pressing  him  close  against  the  wall.     Be- 


262  HEROES   WHO   FIGHT   FIRE 

hind  him  was  another,  with  still  another 
holding  on  within  the  room,  where  the  lining 
chain  was  anchored  by  all  the  rest.  Rush,  at 
the  end  of  the  ledge,  leaned  over  and  gave 
Fitzmanrice  his  hand.  The  fireman  grasped 
it,  and  edged  out  upon  the  spur.  Barnett, 
holding  the  rescuer  fast,  gave  him  what  he 
needed — something  to  cling  to.  Once  he  was 
on  the  ledge,  the  chain  wound  itself  up  as  it 
had  unwound  itself.  Slowly,  inch  by  inch,  it 
crept  back,  each  man  pushing  the  next  flat 
against  the  wall  with  might  and  main,  while 
the  multitudes  in  the  street  held  their  breath, 
and  the  very  engines  stopped  panting,  until 
all  were  safe. 

John  Rush  is  a  fireman  to-day,  a  member 
of  "  Thirty-three's  "  crew  in  Great  Jones  street. 
He  was  an  insurance  patrolman  then.  The 
organization  is  unofficial.  Its  main  purpose 
is  to  save  property;  but  in  the  face  of  the 
emergency  firemen  and  patrolmen  become  one 
body,  obejdng  one  head. 

That  the  spirit  which  has  made  New  York's 
Fire  Department  great  equally  animates  its 
commercial  brother  has  been  shown  more 
than  once,  but  never  better  than  at  the  mem- 
orable fire  in  the  Hotel  Royal,  which  cost  so 
many  lives.     No  account  of  heroic  life-sa^dng 


HEROES  WHO   FIGHT   FIRE  263 

at  fires,  even  as  fragmentary  as  this,  could 
pass  by  the  marvelous  feat,  or  feats,  of  Ser- 
geant (now  Captain)  John  R.  Vaughan  on 
that  February  morning  six  years  ago.  The 
alarm  rang  in  patrol  station  No.  3  at  3 :  20 
o'clock  on  Sunday  morning.  Sergeant 
Vaughan,  hastening  to  the  fire  with  his  men, 
found  the  whole  five-story  hotel  ablaze  from 
roof  to  cellar.  The  fire  had  shot  up  the  ele- 
vator shaft,  round  which  the  stairs  ran,  and 
from  the  first  had  made  escape  impossible. 
Men  and  women  were  jumping  and  hanging 
from  windows.  One,  falling  from  a  great 
height,  came  within  an  inch  of  killing  the 
sergeant  as  he  tried  to  enter  the  building. 
Darting  up  into  the  next  house,  and  leaning 
out  of  the  window  with  his  whole  body,  while 
one  of  the  crew  hung  on  to  one  leg,— as  Fire- 
man Pearl  did  to  Howe's  in  the  splendid  res- 
cue at  the  Geneva  Club,— he  took  a  half -hitch 
with  the  other  in  some  electric-light  wires 
that  ran  up  the  wall,  trusting  to  his  rubber 
boots  to  protect  him  from  the  current,  and 
made  of  his  body  a  living  bridge  for  the  safe 
passage  from  the  last  window  of  the  burning 
hotel  of  three  men  and  a  woman  wliom  death 
stared  in  the  face,  steadying  them  as  they  went 
with  his  free  hand.     As  the  last  passed  over, 


264  HEROES   WHO  FIGHT   FIRE 

ladders  were  being  thrown  up  against  the 
wall,  and  what  could  be  done  there  was 
done. 

Sergeant  Vaughan  went  up  on  the  roof. 
The  smoke  was  so  dense  there  that  he  could 
see  little,  but  through  it  he  heard  a  cry  for 
help,  and  made  out  the  shape  of  a  man  stand- 
ing upon  a  window-sill  in  the  fifth  story, 
overlooking  the  courtyard  of  the  hotel.  The 
yard  was  between  them.  Bidding  his  men 
follow, — they  were  five,  all  told,— he  ran 
down  and  around  in  the  next  street  to  the 
roof  of  the  house  that  formed  an  angle  with 
the  hotel  wing.  There  stood  the  man  below 
him,  only  a  jump  away,  but  a  jump  which  no 
mortal  might  take  and  live.  His  face  and 
hands  were  black  with  smoke.  Vaughan, 
looking  down,  thought  him  a  negro.  He  was 
perfectly  calm. 

''  It  is  no  use,"  he  said,  glancing  up.  ''  Don't 
try.     You  can't  do  it." 

The  sergeant  looked  wistfully  about  him. 
Not  a  stick  or  a  piece  of  rope  was  in  sight. 
Every  shred  was  used  below.  There  was 
absolutely  nothing.  '^But  I  could  n't  let 
him,"  he  said  to  me,  months  after,  when  he 
had  come  out  of  the  hospital  a  whole  man 
again,   and   was    back    at    work,— ''I   just 


HEROES  WHO   FIGHT   FIRE  '265 

could  n't,  standing  there  so  quiet  and  brave." 
To  the  man  he  said  sharply : 

"  I  want  you  to  do  exactly  as  I  tell  you,  now. 
Don't  grab  me,  but  let  me  get  the  fii'st  grab." 
He  had  noticed  that  the  man  wore  a  heavy 
overcoat,  and  had  already  laid  his  plan. 

"  Don't  try,"  urged  the  man.  ^'  You  cannot 
save  me.  I  will  stay  here  till  it  gets  too  hot ; 
then  I  will  jump." 

'^  No,  you  won't,"  from  the  sergeant,  as  he 
lay  at  full  length  on  the  roof,  looking  over. 
"  It  is  a  pretty  hard  j^ard  down  there.  I  will 
get  you,  or  go  dead  myself." 

The  four  sat  on  the  sergeant's  legs  as  he 
swung  free  down  to  the  waist ;  so  he  was  al- 
most able  to  reach  the  man  on  the  window 
with  outstretched  hands. 

''  Now  jump— quick  !  "  he  commanded ;  and 
the  man  jumped.  He  caught  him  by  both 
wrists  as  directed,  and  the  sergeant  got  a  grip 
on  the  collar  of  his  coat. 

''Hoist!"  he  shouted  to  the  four  on  the 
roof ;  and  they  tugged  with  their  might.  The 
sergeant's  body  did  not  move.  Bending  over 
till  the  back  creaked,  it  hung  over  the  edge,  a 
weight  of  two  hundred  and  three  pounds  sus- 
pended from  and  holding  it  down.  The  cold 
sweat  started  upon  his  men's  foreheads  as 


266  HEROES  WHO  FIGHT  FIRE 

they  tried  and  tried  again,  without  gaining  an 
inch.  Blood  dripped  from  Sergeant  Vaughan's 
nostrils  and  ears.  Sixty  feet  below  was  the 
paved  coui'tyard )  over  against  him  the  win- 
dow, behind  which  he  saw  the  back-draft 
coming,  gathering  headway  with  lurid,  swirl- 
ing smoke.  Now  it  burst  through,  burning 
the  hair  and  the  coats  of  the  two.  For  an 
instant  he  thought  all  hope  was  gone. 

But  in  a  flash  it  came  back  to  him.  To 
relieve  the  terrible  dead- weight  that  wrenched 
and  tore  at  his  muscles,  he  was  swinging  the 
man  to  and  fro  like  a  pendulum,  head  touch- 
ing head.  He  could  swing  Mm  tip!  A 
smothered  shout  warned  his  men.  They 
crept  nearer  the  edge  without  letting  go  their 
grip  on  him,  and  watched  with  staring  eyes 
the  human  pendulum  swing  wider  and  wider, 
farther  and  farther,  until  now,  with  a  mighty 
effort,  it  swung  within  their  reach.  They 
caught  the  skirt  of  the  coat,  held  on,  pulled 
in,  and  in  a  moment  lifted  him  over  the 
edge. 

They  lay  upon  the  roof,  all  six,  breathless, 
sightless,  their  faces  turned  to  the  winter  sky. 
The  tumult  of  the  street  came  up  as  a  faint 
echo ;  the  spray  of  a  score  of  engines  pump- 
ing below  fell  upon  them,  froze,  and  covered 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  267 

them  Trith  ice.  The  very  roar  of  the  fii'e  seemed 
far  off.  The  sergeant  was  the  first  to  recover. 
He  carried  down  the  man  he  had  saved,  and 
saw  him  sent  off  to  the  hospital.  Then  first 
he  noticed  that  he  was  not  a  negro ;  the  smut 
had  been  rubbed  off  his  face.  Monday  had 
dawned  before  he  came  to,  and  days  passed 
before  he  knew  his  rescuer.  Sergeant  Vaughan 
was  laid  up  himself  then.  He  had  returned 
to  his  work,  and  finished  it;  but  what  he  had 
gone  through  was  too  much  for  human 
strength.  It  was  spring  before  he  returned 
to  his  quarters,  to  find  himself  promoted, 
petted,  and  made  much  of. 

From  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous  is  but  a 
little  step.  Among  the  many  who  journeyed 
to  the  insm'ance  patrol  station  to  see  the  hero 
of  the  great  fire,  there  came,  one  day,  a 
woman.  She  was  young  and  pretty,  the 
sweetheart  of  the  man  on  the  window-sill. 
He  was  a  lawyer,  since  a  State  senator  of 
Pennsylvania.  She  wished  the  sergeant  to 
repeat  exactly  the  words  he  spoke  to  him  in 
that  awful  moment  when  he  bade  him  jump 
—to  life  or  death.  She  had  heard  them,  and 
she  wanted  the  sergeant  to  repeat  them  to  her, 
that  she  might  know  for  sure  he  was  the  man 
who  did  it.    He  stammered  and  hitched— tried 


268  HEROES  WHO  FiaHT   FIRE 

subterfuges.  She  waited,  inexorable.  Finally^ 
in  desperation,  blushing  fiery  red,  he  blurted 
out  "  a  lot  of  cuss-words."  ^'  You  know,"  he 
said  apologetically,  in  telling  of  it,  ^'when  I 
am  in  a  place  like  that  I  can't  help  it." 

When  she  heard  the  words  which  her  fiance 
had  already  told  her,  straightway  she  fell  upon 
the  fireman's  neck.  The  sergeant  stood  dum- 
founded.     ^^  Women  are  queer,"  he  said. 

Thus  a  fireman's  life.  That  the  very  horses 
that  are  their  friends  in  quarters,  their  com- 
rades at  the  fire,  sharing  with  them  what 
comes  of  good  and  evil,  catch  the  spirit  of  it, 
is  not  strange.  It  would  be  strange  if  they 
did  not.  With  human  intelligence  and  more 
than  human  affection,  the  splendid  animals 
follow  the  fortunes  of  theii'  masters,  doing 
their  share  in  whatever  is  demanded  of  them. 
In  the  final  showing  that  in  thirty  years, 
while  with  the  growing  population  the  num- 
ber of  fires  has  steadily  increased,  the  average 
loss  per  fii^e  has  as  steadily  decreased,  they 
have  their  full  share,  also,  of  the  credit.  In 
1866  there  were  796  fires  in  New  York,  with 
an  average  loss  of  $8075.38  per  fire.  In  1876, 
with  1382  fires,  the  loss  was  but  $2786.70  at 
each.  In  1896,  3890  fires  averaged  only 
$878.81.     It  means  that  every  year  more  fires 


HEROES  WHO  FIGHT   FIRE  269 

are  headed  off  than  run  down— smothered  at 
the  start,  as  a  fire  should  be.  When  to  the 
verdict  of  '^ faithful  unto  death"  that  record 
is  added,  nothing  remains  to  be  said.  The 
firemen  know  how  much  of  that  is  the  doing 
of  their  four-legged  comrades.  It  is  the  one 
blot  on  the  fan*  picture  that  the  city  which 
owes  these  horses  so  much  has  not  seen  fit,  in 
gratitude,  to  provide  comfort  for  their  worn 
old  age.  When  a  fireman  grows  old,  he  is 
retired  on  half -pay  for  the  rest  of  his  days. 
When  a  horse  that  has  run  with  the  heavy 
engines  to  fires  by  night  and  by  day  for  per- 
haps ten  or  fifteen  years  is  worn  out,  it  is— 
sold,  to  a  huckster,  perhaps,  or  a  contractor, 
to  slave  for  him  until  it  is  fit  only  for  the 
bone-yard  !  The  city  receives  a  paltry  two  or 
three  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  this  rank 
treachery,  and  pockets  the  blood-money  with- 
out a  protest.  There  is  room  next,  in  New 
York,  for  a  movement  that  shall  secure  to  the 
fireman's  faithful  friend  the  grateful  reward 
of  a  quiet  farm,  a  full  crib,  and  a  green  pas- 
ture to  the  end  of  its  days,  when  it  is  no 
longer  j'oung  enough  and  strong  enough  to 
''  run  with  the  machine." 


